


Gifts for Epimetheus

by MagicFish



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s05e14 In Purgatory's Shadow, Episode: s05e15 By Inferno's Light, Established Relationship, Everyone gets names here, M/M, Mpreg, Original Character(s), Sometimes background characters aren't just for killing, Whump, but I wouldn't call this beta canon-compliant, there are some nods to beta canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2019-09-28 13:30:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17183912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicFish/pseuds/MagicFish
Summary: Tain's last-ditch attempt to muster a politically favorable position while war is brewing backfires when the Dominion turns out to be less absorbed in the conflict than expected, and leaves Julian in a difficult position far away from home. As Julian and Tain adapt to their confinement in Dominion Prison Camp 371, Garak starts to notice something off about the Doctor Bashir who remains on Deep Space Nine.





	1. Chapter 1

Julian forced his eyes open and woozily brought the ceiling above him into focus. The soreness he’d become accustomed to wrapped around him like a blanket, but this awakening brought something more than the usual pains of reparative surgery. He fought back the anaesthetic fog and focused on pinpointing the strange new sensation...there. An unaccustomed heaviness, not uncomfortable but decidedly present, low in his abdomen. An implant of some kind?

“Doctor Bashir,” a voice boomed, interrupting his thoughts. Julian glared blearily toward the forcefield at the front of his cell and at the tormentor beyond it. Tain grinned magnanimously. "How are you feeling?"

Julian slid deliberately to his feet, sensitive to the traces of anaesthetic still working out of his system. “As well as can be expected,” he croaked, his throat sore with screaming and dry from unconsciousness.

“Good,” the Cardassian grinned, “because I want you in top shape for what we are about to do. First, however, I want you to take some time to get your bearings. Adjust to the new conditions of your imprisonment.”

“Conditions,” Julian repeated.

“Yes. You’ve impressed me, Doctor. You’ve proven yourself to be much more resilient than I expect a human to be." Julian didn't like Tain's knowing tone, but he tried his best to force his face into the mask of neutrality that had served as his only shield for almost two weeks.

Tain continued, "Your loyalty to your Federation, even in the face of true pain, is to be commended, but I am at heart a competitive man, and as admirable as your resistance may be, it is also a challenge to my professional capabilities. It occurred to me to wonder just what might move a man who is resistant to the persuasion of pain." His expression turned predatory, an eerie mirror of his protegé's well-worn, knowing leer. Julian shuddered internally at the twisted, nightmarish familiarity of it and fought even harder to maintain control of his features. The sadistic twist of Tain's reptilian lip told him he had not succeeded.

"The answer was obvious, of course. You once risked a great deal to come to me to save Garak's life. Perhaps these were the actions of a concerned friend and caring doctor...or perhaps your emotions run as deep as your loyalty."

No, not Garak. He wouldn't harm Garak. Julian’s jaw clenched tighter.

“Hm. I suspected as much. Have you ever considered, Doctor, what it must be like for Garak, out there on that station, separated from his people? All alone, without a friend? Except for you, of course.” An ominous twinkle sparked in Tain’s eye.

“I’m sure it must be difficult,” Julian muttered through gritted teeth.

“Yes, I’m sure it must. For Cardassians, as you know, a connection to community and family is essential.”

“Get to the point, Tain,” Julian spat.

“The longer I kept you here, the more I realized how sad it is that you are poor Garak's only real...friend. He has no opportunities on a Bajoran outpost to create a haven for himself, a little pocket of Cardassian life to sustain him. This is where you come in.”

“Me.”

"Yes. Perhaps you have not considered, Doctor, that you could be the very salvation that Garak must long for on a lonely, isolated station. I have given you the opportunity to give him a balm to soothe the sting of exile. Give me the information I desire, and you may return to Terok Nor–ah, I apologize–to Deep Space Nine intact, bearing the greatest blessing that Garak might hope for." Tain spread his arms wide, for all the world like a benevolent father giving his child a special and long-awaited treat. Julian’s heart leapt to his throat. It couldn't possibly...Tain wouldn't...

“I don’t believe I understand,” he choked out. The Cardassian’s grin grew improbably wider.

“Your Federation is remarkably open with their medical knowledge, Doctor. It was a simple thing to replicate and implant a surrogate womb. As for the child itself, well, I’m sure you won’t be surprised to know that I have access to the DNA of many of the Obsidian Order’s former members.” His gaze strayed pointedly to Julian’s midsection before trailing back up to his face, his eye ridges ominously framing his crocodilian smile. Julian, trying valiantly to blame it on the after-effects of the surgical anaesthetic, swayed backwards and barely caught himself on the edge of the hard prison bed. Tain signalled to an attendant to let down the forcefield. As he stepped through, he took a medical tricorder from another guard and offered it to Julian, who accepted it numbly.

“I’ll give you some time to perform any examinations you wish, though I assure you there is nothing wrong with either you or the child. Of course, if you attempt to use the tricorder or its parts improperly–say, to create a crude weapon or communications device–I will have both of you killed. And Doctor,” Tain’s voice took on a warning tone as he stepped back and reactivated the forcefield, “you have seen what I am willing to do to acquire information. I advise you to take this time to consider what effect my techniques would have on your dear Garak's unborn child.” With a final, triumphant grin, the Cardassian turned away and left Julian not quite alone.

By Julian's calculations, he had been left alone for almost two hours before he admitted defeat. The ache of the new organ faded as he scanned and re-scanned his body, eventually receding to a dull background thrum.

The artificial womb was horribly perfect. Nerves and blood vessels were stitched neatly into place, and Julian's muscles were already beginning to work around it. The blastocyst was rather larger than he had expected, given his short imprisonment, but Julian reluctantly acknowledged that it was within expected parameters for the size a quick-growing Cardassian embryo could have achieved in a laboratory in the time since his capture. The tricorder was connected to no external database, but was pre-loaded with DNA readouts labeled "BASHIR J" and "GARAK E" that matched the baby's–the embryo's–DNA. Julian elected to withhold judgement on its parentage until he had access to an unbiased database. A scan of his DNA did, indeed, match the provided readout in the tricorder, but there was simply no guarantee that the GARAK sample really was Garak's. He might never truly know.

Julian sighed and set the scanner aside. Slowly, still sore, he leaned back against the wall, staring numbly at the dust on his Starfleet-issue boots. It felt like they were very far away, filled with someone else's feet. Nothing felt real. Tentatively, just to try it, he lowered a shaking hand gently to his belly. At first, he felt nothing except a paradoxical relief at not feeling what he knew was there. Then his hand came fully to rest on the almost imperceptible mound where his body had shifted to accomodate a new and unfamiliar organ and 1his world crashed down around him.

He snatched his hand away and frantically put it to work combing through his hair. He was pregnant. He was pregnant. He couldn't be pregnant. He had sworn he would never have a child to continue Richard and Amsha's cruel legacy. What if the baby inherited Julian's childhood developmental delays? Worse, what if it didn't?

And what about Garak? They had never talked about having children, but being with Garak was the closest Julian had ever gotten to considering reversing his position on reproduction. What if Tain was right? What if Garak would treasure a chance to raise a child?

But all of his considerations were moot. He wouldn't ever get out of Tain's compound. He wouldn't carry the baby to term. He didn't want to. He didn't. He never had. Resentment flooded through him, followed almost immediately by guilt and then, unexpectedly, resignation.

"Damn." Julian pressed his head back against the smooth metal wall and swore softly. He was going to do it, he realized. He was going to have a baby, and he wasn't even entirely sure why. It wasn't a rational decision, of that he was certain. Maybe it was an instinct to protect the innocent, which his baby surely was. Maybe it was a desire to be a hero, to embody the self-sacrificing nobility that he truly believed Starfleet represented. Maybe it was just his pig-headed tendency to jump into a new adventure without looking. And maybe, somewhere in some deeply buried part of himself, he wanted his and Garak's baby badly enough that any other reason didn't matter, and any objection didn't compute.

Tain had judged him more competently than he had ever judged himself. Check and mate. More steadily than before, Julian allowed himself to settle a palm gently over his lower abdomen. “How are we going to get out of this?” he muttered dejectedly. He glanced back to the tricorder on the bed. Tampering with the tricorder had been forbidden, but any Starfleet cadet knew a dozen and a half unintended uses for an unaltered tricorder. He began turning the problem over in his head.

The echo of an explosion in a far-off corridor brought an end to his machinations. In a moment, Julian was on his feet and peering curiously through his cell’s forcefield, but the guard at the end of the passage barely acknowledged the distant sound. Long minutes of silence followed as Julian paced restlessly at the front of his cell. It was foolish, he reminded himself, to think that any sound, no matter how loud, signalled a rescue attempt. There was still at least a day before anyone aboard the station would notice that he hadn’t made it back from the medical conference. And anyway, if Tain had managed to rise from the ashes of his transport ship to build something as elaborate as the complex prison where Julian was being held, he had certainly provided for an equally elaborate defense system.

A second explosion, this one nearer, finally drew the notice of the guard, who turned her attention to the door just in time to be vaporized by a Jem’Hadar disruptor that breached the door ahead of a small squadron of warriors. Julian shrank back against his cell wall, but could only look on helplessly as the commanding Vorta stepped up to his forcefield. He nodded at the forcefield’s control panel, and Julian jerked involuntarily backward as the Jem’Hadar First disrupted the panel and the field vanished. The Vorta stepped through.

“Dr Julian Bashir,” the Vorta said. It wasn’t a question, which was a bad sign. If the Founders knew both who and where he was, he had probably already been replaced. That threw his chances for rescue wildly out of expected parameters. “I am Deyos,” the Vorta continued. “Welcome to my custody.”


	2. Chapter 2

The first night in the Dominion detention center was hell. The poorly-insulated metal walls carried unpredictable eddies of cold air throughout the compound and bounced the echo of every cough and creaking cot back into the thin, recycled air of Barracks Four. Shivering on a flimsy cot tucked tightly against the frigid wall, Julian curled in on himself, struggling to find some modicum of warmth in the dubious shelter of his too-thin blanket.

Through the dim red light, he looked across the room, where his new friend Vriha appeared to be having no trouble sleeping. Tain had been reluctant to trust the Romulan woman and her companions, Havraha and Dhael, but he hadn't been able to maneuver Julian out of the way in time to stop hawk-eyed Vriha from noticing Julian's vulnerability as soon as he entered the compound and swooping in to show him the ropes.

"You're weak, so they won't be interested in taking you to the fighting pits," she had declared matter-of-factly, "but you'd be wise not to attract attention, just in case."

While Tain had scoffed and wandered off to find the prison's weak points on his own, Vriha had showed Julian the food delivery system, the communal toilets, and a few areas where small groups could gather without attracting the attention of guards on their usual patrol routes. She was like an angel to Julian after two weeks at the mercy of Tain's dubious hospitality.

Tain himself had taken his place in Barracks Four with surprisingly few complaints. Apart from a few snide comments about the cold, he had kept largely to himself until lights-out, seemingly content to sit quietly and take in the rhythms of life in the prison. Julian kept as far away from the spymaster as possible while still keeping an eye on him. Even being in the same barracks as Tain put Julian on edge. He tried to count sheep, to tell peaceful stories in his head, and to focus on Vriha's even breathing, but his night was long and torturously sleepless.

The morning began with meal call, where the prisoners were counted and catalogued as they received their bland but plentiful rations. After a perfunctory breakfast in Barracks Four, Vriha's subordinate, Subcommander Havraha, shared a sharpened metal shard with Julian so he could shave while Tain made a slow, careful circuit of the barracks, looking for weak points in the walls.

"All that's out there is space," Sublieutenant Dhael called petulantly from her watch-post near the door. "Even if you can get out, you won't escape."

Tain seemed not to hear her. It was a bad sign; Tain almost never passed up an opportunity to backtalk anyone who dared cross him. His silence, Julian feared, was more likely than not a tacit agreement. And if Tain, with his seemingly infinite capacity for invention and survival, didn't think they could escape, then they probably couldn't.

The prisoners were catalogued again at the evening meal. This time, their small group ate in an empty access hallway, clustered in an awkward circle as they wore out their jaws gnawing on stale protein bars. Dhael did her best to drive the conversation, flitting from topic to topic and scanning the faces of her companions frenetically, seeking some positive response from the glum prisoners. Julian tried his best to keep up with her, but found himself distracted again and again as he tried to think his way around the Jem'Hadar security.

"What I don't understand is why the Vorta took samples of our blood," he ruminated aloud as he moved out of the way of a passing Klingon. "Surely they can't suspect we've already been replaced by Changelings?"

"Changeling operatives absorb the blood of their victims so they can pass as solids," the Klingon growled behind Julian's ear. Julian jumped instinctively, but the Klingon didn't seem fazed.

"They don't do it to everyone. Only high-risk targets really need their blood drawn. They've taken mine three times," he boasted.

"You're General Martok!" Julian exclaimed.

"I am. I take it you've heard of me."

"I think I met your doppelganger on Deep Space Nine a few months ago."

"Hm," Martok grunted in displeasure. "You must tell me what he's been up to." He glared at a passing Jem'Hadar soldier with his one good eye. "But later. The guards don't like large gatherings."

"Right. Well, I'm Doctor Julian Bashir and this is Enabran Tain, if you want to catch up with us later. We're new here."

"Tain, eh?" Martok asked with sudden interest. "Yes, I just might find you again. If you need any guidance in the meantime, you can find me in Barracks Six." With a last meaningful glance at Tain, Martok stalked away.

In the three days after Tain and Martok met, Julian began to notice differences in the configuration of prisoners exiting the barracks in the mornings. Prisoners who had been lodging in Barracks One started emerging from Barracks Three. Prisoners who had been in Barracks Five were suddenly sleeping in Barracks One. The Jem'Hadar didn't seem to care, and might not even have noticed; they were certainly sure that the prison's isolation was a good enough safeguard against any real escape attempts, and seemed to spend most of their days in or around the fighting ring.

On the fourth day, Tain did not return to Barracks Four to sleep. On the fifth day, he emerged from Barracks Six accompanied only by Martok and a Breen. All of the other occupants of Barracks Six had been moved to different quarters.

"I think Tain and Martok are up to something," Julian told Dhael that morning as he helped Havraha shave. Most of the other inhabitants of Barracks Four spent their days out in the communal dome, allowing Julian and his Romulan friends free reign.

"Are they?" Dhael chirped. "I'm surprised a pair of stodgy old men like them can find time to plan around all their blustering."

"They're both master strategists," Julian chided fondly. Sublieutenant Dhael was the youngest of his Romulan companions, and had entered the prison separately from Vriha and Havraha. Even after almost four months in the compound, she was bubbly and irreverent in a way that Vriha seemed to find both grating and endearing, and that Julian found absolutely charming.

If I were a single man outside of this damned prison, he caught himself thinking more than once, she is exactly the kind of woman I would pursue. Julian knew deep down he was fooling himself; even if he were single and safely back on Deep Space Nine, he had definitely been spoiled for young, vivacious lovers by Garak's suave and mysterious attentions. The thought was, nevertheless, reassuringly normal, a nostalgic reminder that he had once had a life outside of Cardassian and Dominion prisons.

"You'd better update your facts sheet," Dhael teased. "Martok's been stuck here too long to be a master strategist, and Tain looks like he'd keel over dead if someone looked at him the wrong way."

"Does he?"

"Well, sure he does. He shuffles everywhere he goes. Leans against the walls all the way out from his barracks and all the way back. That is, when he even leaves his barracks. Haven't you noticed?"

Julian hadn't noticed. He had taken Tain's absence as a personal blessing and had pointedly refused to let himself pay any attention to his former captor whenever their paths crossed, which, now that he thought of it, had been happening less and less frequently.

"He's probably cold," Julian finally said, giving Havraha's chin a final, careful scrape. "Cardassians are used to higher temperatures than Humans or Romulans, and he's not exactly a spring chicken."

"Chicken?" Dhael giggled.

"A young man. He's not young."

"Well, that's true. Still, I think it's more than that. He shows up for morning rations panting like a ra'tar after a hunt."

"Hm."

"Why do you think they're up to something, Bashir?" Vriha asked from the cot across the room.

"The way Tain moved into Martok's barracks was too deliberate to be accidental. And Dhael's right; Tain rarely does leave there anymore. I think they're planning something."

Vriha nodded approvingly. "Good," she said. "I think so too. Are you done there?" She nodded to the makeshift razor still in Julian's hand.

"Yes."

"Then follow me."

Slowly enough not to attract the guards' attention but quickly enough not to draw conversation from the other prisoners (how she maintained such a perfect pace, Julian suspected he would never know), Vriha led her little regiment out of Barracks Four and along a curve of the prison dome to Barracks Six. Without pausing to knock, she marched straight in.

The first thing Julian noticed was that Tain was nowhere to be seen. The second thing was Martok, a wall of muscle and fury, barrelling across the room to stop just in front of Vriha.

"What are you doing here?" he roared, spittle flying. Vriha didn't even blink.

"Interrupting your very important work," she said calmly. "Taking you by surprise. Exposing your tactical weakness."

"Tactical weakness," Martok spat.

"Yes, tactical weakness. And if you want it corrected, you will find room in your...very crowded barracks for us." Vriha gestured dismissively to the solitary Breen sitting sullenly on the bench near the door.

"And if I don't?"

"Then you, and not I, will be the one who suffers when your crude defenses lead to your exposure. The Jem'Hadar are bored here, but they aren't stupid. If I can walk in and notice your missing bunkmate, so can they. However, here behind me, I have a total of three lookouts and one doctor, a doctor that I believe your missing companion dearly needs."

Martok and Vriha stared at each other as only two commanders can, steadily and challenging, shielding the spinning gears of compromise from their underlings and from each other. Finally, Martok spoke.

"Very well. It is true that we are in need of a doctor. It is also true that we can do with some lookouts. But no more, do you understand? This is as many as we will take into the barracks."

"Done," Vriha agreed. "Dhael, you watch the door. Havraha, sit opposite the Breen and switch shifts with Dhael every half hour." She turned to the Breen. "I don't suppose you intend to help?"

The Breen stared back silently. At least, Julian imagined they were staring back silently. Behind the helmet, it was hard to tell.

"Fine," Vriha snapped. "Now, General Martok, where is Tain? I assume that whatever he is doing is the same thing you had that Cardassian woman working on before she died. Do you have reason to believe it will work this time?"

"There is no 'this time' or 'that time.' Siana wasn't able to finish her work, and Tain has merely taken over. He was her mentor. He taught her how to do what she was trying to do, so of course I am confident that he knows how to complete her work. If he lives long enough, that is."

"What's the matt–" Julian began.

"We'll get to that later," Vriha interrupted. "What exactly is he doing?"

"He is accessing the remnants of the barracks' life support systems to create a subspace transceiver. He plans to send a message to another of his former operatives, whom he believes will send a rescue party."

"That would take months!" Dhael exclaimed from the door, turning toward the group with wide eyes. Behind her, Havraha stood and deftly moved her out of the way to take his watch shift early.

"It has," Martok snapped. "Siana worked behind that panel for hours every day, from the day she arrived until the day she died. Tain says she nearly completed the job. He thinks he can finish in another two weeks."

"Then we will stand guard until he has finished. Dhael, if you feel inclined to leave your post again, please remember that you must keep to it for only two weeks. Surely you can handle that." Despite the admonition, Vriha's voice had no edge to it, and Julian fancied he saw just the barest twitch of a smile flicker over the corners of her mouth as she addressed her impulsive subordinate.

"Yes, Commander," Dhael muttered, suitably cowed. She tapped Havraha's shoulder and re-took her place at the door. The long watch of Barracks Six had begun.

When Tain finally emerged from the crawlspace, just in time for the call to the evening meal, it was on his hands and knees, bent in on himself in obvious pain and desperately short of breath. He didn't even react as Julian rushed forward to help him to his cot, nor did he object when Julian began fussing around him, taking his pulse, listening to his breathing, and assessing his condition as well as was possible without medical equipment.

"He's in no condition to leave the barracks," Vriha declared as Julian finished his analysis.

"We could help him walk," Julian proposed.

"That's not what I meant. He will draw the attention of the guards to him and to everyone around him. We cannot afford to have that attention."

"She's right," Tain gasped from the cot. Julian sighed.

"Then I will retrieve your protein bar for you," he said, pushing himself up on the edge of the cot. He swayed slightly, but hid the motion by shifting his weight to lean against the wall. Barely three weeks pregnant and his equilibrium was already a little off, his brain supplied helpfully as he fought to control the outward signs of dizziness.

"That would be sensible," Vriha agreed.

The Jem'Hadar were less interested than Julian expected when he and Vriha told them about Tain's condition.

"The Cardassian Tain is sick," the attendant Jem'Hadar relayed to his bored superior. Ikat'ika, Julian remembered Martok calling him.

"That one is no longer needed. We have no need to render medical assistance," Ikat'ika replied. He turned to Julian. "You may take him his food."

"Thank you," Julian ground out, and stomped back to the barracks with two protein bars.

Over the next two weeks, Julian kept his frustration at the Jem'Hadar guards' indifference at a low simmer. He fetched and carried for Tain in the brief hours during which the former spymaster could leave the crawlspace, did what he could to make Tain comfortable as his heart troubles intensified, and spent as much time as possible sitting or lying down while his body used what meager energy it had adjusting to the pregnancy. 

Dhael's days were not so full, and the tedium of keeping watch began to wear on her.

"It's wrong," she grumped from her post near the door on the twentieth day of Julian's imprisonment. Julian, nauseous and exhausted from night after night of fitful sleep, was doing his best to doze on a cot near the access panel, but Dhael's obvious frustration dragged him just far enough out of his nap to respond.

"What's wrong?" Julian mumbled without taking his arm away from his tired eyes.

"That they could help Tain and won't. That they won't even execute him. They're just leaving him to languish and die."

"If they executed him, we'd be a lot father from rescue."

"I don't mean I want him to be executed. Just that it's cruel to make him suffer. Almost as cruel as letting him be sick in the first place."

"Hmm."

"You know, that'll be us someday if we can't get out of here. They'll run out of a use for each of us, one after another, and then we'll just succumb to whatever preventable disease comes for us in the end."

"You're very cheerful today." Julian said, dropping his arm and pushing himself to a sitting position. He kept his tone light, masking his worry at Dhael's bleak statement. Dhael was staring determinedly out the window of the door, but it was clear that she wasn't really focusing on anything in particular.

"I guess I'm just scared," she admitted. "My grandmother carried a gene for dementia. They found it completely by accident and were able to treat it before it fully manifested. But in here, I just keep thinking about it. What if she passed that gene to me? What if I slowly lose everything I remember about a life that some Changeling out there is living for me? Or worse, what if I'm the last one to survive and I have to watch you all languish and die, one after another?"

"That won't happen." Julian tried as hard as he could to believe the carefully-crafted reassurance in his own voice. "Tain is nearly finished. In five days, maybe less, someone out there will know we're here."

"Two weeks ago, we thought it would take fourteen days. Now it's another five. Tain is slowing down, Bashir. He might not make it that long." Her voice choked off for a moment and returned as a whisper. "None of the rest of us can finish what he's doing. Even if we could, who knows if anyone is even reachable with that mess of circuits?"

Julian stood and threaded his way between the cots to lay his hand comfortingly on Dhael's quivering shoulder.

"We will get out of here," he said. "Tain may be sick and that may be slowing him down, but he's a survivor through and through. He would cheat, steal, and kill if it meant he could live to see another day, and right now what it takes to live is getting that message out." He gave Dhael's shoulder a final squeeze. "He will succeed, and we will escape. You'll see."

Dhael's shuddering breaths fogged the small window of the door as she struggled to regain control of herself.

"Do you think we'll take Mysterious Ila with us when we go?" she finally asked. The Romulans of Barracks Six had nicknamed their Breen companion after, Julian gathered, a popular Romulan children's character who was famous for never speaking. Julian smiled. Jocularity, no matter how forced, was one of the few things that continued to carry them through the interminable days in the prison.

"Why, of course we'll take them," he said. "Whatever would we do without Mysterious Ila?"

Dhael giggled aloud, her tears nearly dry on her cheeks. Julian giggled along with her and soon the pair were laughing raucously, clinging to their moment of normality with palpable relief. Sitting stolidly on the cot near the door, even Mysterious Ila seemed just a little happier than before.


	3. Chapter 3

"One bar?!" Dhael roared. Her sharp, shrill voice was a weapon wielded by a master warrior; all around her, prisoners and Jem'Hadar alike turned to stare at the confrontation.

"One bar," said the rations officer. "One prisoner, one bar."

"You know full well that we have a sick man in our barracks! Without this food, he could die!"

"Then he will die."

"This is injustice! You can't do this!"

"If you're that worked up about it," the soldier sneered, sliding the remaining bar back across the table, "then maybe you don't get any food either."

With an animal shriek, Dhael launched herself across the table just as Vriha, already halfway across the open communal area and sprinting fast, cried, "No!"

The Jem'Hadar soldiers were, by default, bored by the monotony of guarding the prison. The fighting ring provided just enough stimulation to keep them from rampaging through the hordes of valuable prisoners just to get a taste of victory, but their barely-contained discipline was no match for the temptation presented by the furious little Romulan. In only a moment, Dhael had been subdued and was hanging, dazed and with a bleeding lip, in the midst of a half-dozen soldiers.

Vriha, with Julian hot on her heels, skidded to a stop in front of her captive subordinate and the Jem'Hadar commander Itak'ita.

"Sir, I apologize for the sublieutenant's actions. It will not happen again," she gasped. Itak'ita regarded her coldly.

"If my men behaved in such a way, they would be put to death."

"I understand, and will see to it that she is properly reprimanded for her actions."

"No." The Jem'Hadar First was curt and horribly dispassionate as he ordered, "Take her to the ring."

"No! You can't!" Julian cried, but his protest was silenced as Vriha frantically clapped her hand over his mouth and dragged him away.

"Silence, you fool, or they'll take you too. If she can survive long enough, she will need you to care for her when she returns to the barracks."

But Dhael did not return to the barracks that evening. No one dared to check on her in person; it was common knowledge among the prisoners that being too close to the fighting ring was tantamount to forming a queue for the next fight, but from time to time, Vriha or Havraha would peer fearfully out the small window of their door to report that the soldier's around the ring were still active and cheering.

That night, all Julian could do was wait and worry, make Tain comfortable when the day's work was done, and fall asleep choking back tears of fear and sorrow.

The following morning, Julian woke up to find Mysterious Ila, the Breen, sitting silently but attentively at the end of their cot. Julian nodded politely, neither expecting a response nor receiving one. He glanced across the room. Dhael's cot was still empty. Cold, furious sorrow closed like a vice around Julian's throat as he shifted to sit at the end of his own cot and put his head in his hands.

Some time later, long enough for Julian to dampen the sleeve of his stained uniform with silent tears, he heard the creak of Havraha's cot. Then Martok's. Then Vriha's. Then Tain's. No one spoke. No one had to.

They sat silently together, six maimed, weak, and uninteresting prisoners who had come to believe they were invincible in their invisibility. They sat in mourning for the loss of what Dhael had been, and of what she could have been, for her joy and laughter and for the fears she would never learn to face. They mourned that they could not protect her, and they mourned the bleak reminder that they could not protect themselves.

At morning meal call, Tain rose silently and struggled back into the crawlspace. Julian closed the hatch, replaced the cot and, leaving Vriha and Havraha on watch, walked as stoically as he could to the ration table.

The ration officer, with a fresh scar streaked down the side of his face, looked Julian square in the eyes and set down a single ration bar.

Pure, hot rage sliced through Julian's heart like a knife. "Please," he ground out around clenched teeth, "my companion is sick. May I have a second bar so that he does not starve?"

"One prisoner, one bar."

"I see. That's good news, actually, because my companion and myself together make two people. I can show you the maths sometime, if you'd like."

The soldier's hand tightened around the ration bar and his lips drew back in a snarl.

"You will have one bar," he growled, "or we will see how long you last in the ring."

"What is going on here?" A voice rang out sharply. The Jem'Hadar soldier turned around to face his approaching leader, his face suddenly a mask of deference.

"This prisoner demands more food for his cellmate," he explained.

"Again?" Itak'ita sounded almost disgusted. "This is twice now. I will not put up with it any longer." He motioned to two Jem'Hadar, who grabbed Julian roughly by the arms.

"Take him to solitary confinement," Itak'ita ordered.

The solitary cells had clearly been created from an on-site lavatory outbuilding from when the prison was still a mine. Julian's cell had a small water tap, a rudimentary recycling toilet, and just enough room for him either to stand or to sit with his knees to his chest.

The only other thing in the cell was time. Hour after hour, Julian counted his heartbeats. If it were very Cardassian, he thought as he counted, his baby probably had a heartbeat, as well. How many times had that tiny, rudimentary heart beat since Julian had talked back to the rations officer? Julian didn't want to think about it.

Twenty-two thousand heartbeats passed, and Julian couldn't help but think about it. It was a miserable thing for a child's first heartbeats to occur in a prison, Julian decided. Even worse, however, was the overwhelming likelihood that its first independent heartbeats would also be in a prison. And its first breaths. Cries. Steps, if it lived that long. Martok had been in the camp for years, after all, and Tain was likely to die before he could contact his operative.

Thirty thousand heartbeats. Julian shook his head and pushed himself up to stand between the narrow walls. He stretched his legs and arms as much as he could. It wouldn't do to be pessimistic. Tain was clever and diligent. Maybe he had already contacted his operative, and help was on the way. By the time the baby was born, they'd have forgotten all about Internment Camp 371. Its first breaths and cries wouldn't echo off the frigid walls of Barracks Six, but off the warm, insulated, peculiarly Cardassian-Federation operating room on Deep Space Nine.

Thirty-five thousand. Julian smiled despite himself at the thought of Nurse Jabara carefully lifting a pink-gray baby into the world. Julian's mother would be on hand, he imagined. Even if he hadn't asked her to be, she would find out somehow when the baby was coming and maneuver her way into the operating room. People thought Richard was the more devious of Julian's parents, but they didn't count on Amsha's ability to play up her wide, innocent eyes.

Forty thousand. Amsha would love to have a grandchild to coddle and fuss over. Maybe with a grandchild it wouldn't matter to her as much if the baby turned out to be as slow as Jules had been. Maybe she and Richard would learn to leave well enough alone. Julian perched on the edge of the toilet and leaned back against the wall, cradling his belly. Whatever his baby was like, he would love it. He would never do what his parents had done.

Forty-one thousand. His heartbeat had speed up. What would Garak's parents think of their child? Would they ever meet it? Garak never talked about his parents except in the vaguest and most evasive terms, and Julian had the impression that he either wouldn't or couldn't communicate with them from his exile. Julian tried to imagine what Garak's mother might look like holding a baby, but came up short.

After almost fifty thousand beats, heavy boots echoed down the hall outside his cell and a protein bar slid through a slot in the door. Shocked, Julian barely caught it before it hit the floor. At least he wouldn't starve.

He made the bar last almost fifteen thousand heartbeats.

He made the next last twenty thousand.

In protein bars and heartbeats, Julian Bashir counted out a week of solitary confinement, becoming more sure with every passing moment that his life, and the life of his tiny family, would end after all on a cold, isolated asteroid in the Gamma Quadrant.


	4. Chapter 4

Garak almost resented that he had become a de facto co-parent to Dukat's daughter. Almost.

He hadn't intended to find himself caring for her. Originally, he had only intended to get close enough to be ready in case he needed to use her as leverage for or against Dukat. Unfortunately for his plans, Ziyal made up for her unfortunate parentage by being as charming and guileless as a young person could be. Every protective instinct that Tain had once tried to train out of Garak had come flooding back, reminding him that no one else aboard the station could possibly be as well-placed or knowledgeable about potential threats from Cardassia Prime as Garak was. Ziyal must be protected, Garak knew, and Dukat certainly wasn't going to do it.

It was fortunate, then, that Ziyal was nothing like Dukat. In many ways, she was fundamentally un-Cardassian. Her habit of giving Bajoran-style cheek kisses had certainly taken some getting used to. But even more than her physical forwardness and her complete lack of guile, Ziyal was kind and optimistic in a way that made Garak strangely proud. Not that he had anything to do with those traits; on the contrary, he had already spent weeks trying to gently wean his new friend onto a diet of cautious suspicion. No, Garak found himself feeling proud of Ziyal for finding the capacity for kindness and optimism despite her rough upbringing. Ziyal was a person all her own, entirely separate from her father's influence. Garak envied that.

"I'm happier than I ever thought I could be living here," Ziyal chatted over lunch one day. "I wish I could find someone who could help me develop my art, though. I'm afraid I'm falling into a rut."

"Have you considered taking a long-distance course?" Garak asked, because it was the practical option. The suggestion had nothing to do with keeping Ziyal on the station longer.

"I think I will, but you lose something if you're not working with an instructor in person." Ziyal sighed. She glanced at the Replimat chronometer. "Oh, I'm sorry for taking up so much of your time."

"Think nothing of it, my dear. I'm always glad to have your company."

"That's sweet of you to say. Would you mind having lunch again tomorrow? I'm going to collect some information on long-distance courses, but I'd like to get your opinion before I choose one."

"Of course."

"Thank you so much, Yad–" Ziyal stopped abruptly and blushed violently. "G–Garak. Thank you, Garak," she squeaked, and rushed away to recycle her dishes.

Garak gave her the courtesy of a minute's head start before he returned his own dishes to the Replimat recycler and headed down the promenade to his shop.

Yadik. She had been about to call him Yadik. If Tain were alive, he would see right through the mask of detached politeness Garak plastered over his instinctive grin. He would lecture Garak about the foolishness of emotional connections. He would be furious.

None of that mattered, because Tain was dead and Ziyal thought of Garak as a father just as he had begun to think of her as a daughter. What had Tain's style of emotional detachment gotten him, anyway? An estranged son and a miserable, lonely death, the same as most Obsidian Order agents got.

Garak turned on the lights and busied himself straightening up his already-pristine shop. Perhaps he didn't have his dear doctor anymore. Perhaps he didn't have his chosen career or the warmth of his home world or children of his own. Maybe everything he had once imagined of his life was a ravaged caravan, slowly drowning in the sand of passing time just as he rotted in the shell of his empire's former glory. Ziyal had called him Yadik, and perhaps that meant he could find a place to belong after all.

By lunch the next day, that hope had died. Garak woke to an alert that he was needed to decode a Cardassian communication broadcasting from the Gamma Quadrant, as he had several times since he had offered up his services to the Federation. What he expected to be a routine interpretation of some long-outdated stray message instead transformed Garak's world. Tain was alive after all, and needed his help. He fought to keep his mask in place, and managed to rattle off a pat explanation for the message before taking his leave.

He cursed his hubris, he cursed himself, and he cursed Tain. Not outwardly, certainly; Garak was certain he appeared not at all concerned as he made his way down to the promenade. Inwardly, he was terrified. The knowledge that Tain was alive put back into play a dozen threats to Garak's livelihood that he had believed to be neutralized. Ziyal, who had only hours before been a blessing, was suddenly a liability to him, as he was to her. He was still digesting the bitter implications of Tain's survival as he ambled, as casually as he could manage, into the Replimat.

"I'm sorry for the interruption," he said smoothly, taking the seat next to Ziyal.

"Well, how did it go?" she asked.

"I'm afraid I disappointed them. I think they were hoping that message they picked up would contain the key to defeating the Dominion. You should've seen the looks on their faces when I explained to them that it was a five-year old planetary survey report."

"A planetary survey report?" Doctor Bashir asked. His tone was disbelieving and almost sharp. He had been increasingly critical of Garak's work since they had…

Well. It wouldn't do to think of that.

Instead, Garak leaned conspiratorially toward Ziyal. "That's the look exactly," he teased, nodding toward Bashir. He let his delight at her answering giggle show on his face. You see, Doctor? I have my allies here still.

"I would have thought you'd be a little disappointed, too," the doctor countered. "After all, it could have been from one of the survivors of the Cardassian fleet that was lost in the Gamma Quadrant."

"Oh, I'd given up hope of ever finding any trace of them long ago," Garak said dismissively.

"Really? I never saw you as the giving up type," Ziyal said.

"There comes a time when one must face reality, my dear. Those people are gone and are never coming back." Garak groaned inwardly as Bashir opened his mouth to continue his line of questioning. He would have liked to have filled a few more minutes with some empty chatter with Ziyal, but subjecting himself to his former lover's criticism was beyond bearing.

"Well, my young friends, I'd like to stay here and chat all day, but I have dresses to make, trousers to mend. It's a full life, if a trifle banal." He turned fully toward Bashir, careful to use his posture to insinuate a challenge without outright declaring one. "And tell Captain Sisko that I'd be more than happy to decode any Cardassian laundry lists that come across his desk. My dear," he smiled at Ziyal, holding his hand to hers in a warm, familial greeting that never failed to make Garak feel just a little bit at home.

Sentimental, Garak chided himself for the hundredth time as he made his way back to his shop. Tain would be furious. Ziyal was a weakness who could destroy them both in her naivety. It would be safer for both of them to abandon their friendship before she inevitably found herself in the position to be made a pawn in the game between Garak and Dukat. Dukat had been held back by her sweetness too, Garak knew; despite his magnificent self-absorption, Dukat had refrained time and again from revealing the damaging specifics of Garak's past to his daughter. Even his monumental narcissism bowed before the basic need to protect his child from emotional harm. But for how long? No matter how much Dukat thought he cared, there would come a moment when Ziyal would cease to be a daughter and become a pawn. Garak had to protect her somehow.

He was still pondering his dilemma as he boarded a runabout toward the Gamma Quadrant. He'd have a good long while to think about his strategy before he returned. Perhaps instead of stopping when he returned, he would just swing past Deep Space Nine, beam Ziyal out, and keep flying as far as he could, all the way to the farthest reaches of the Alpha Quadrant, where he could pose as her father until the end of his days. The thought had its appeal.

And Bashir had a phaser.

"Going somewhere?" the doctor asked, far more smoothly than Garak had ever imaged he could.

Garak hated being caught out. More than that, he hated that he'd been caught by Bashir. A few weeks before, Garak wouldn't have believed him capable of leveling a phaser at him so coolly. Or of seeing through his paper-thin deception. Or of thinking to stop him instead of joining him. No, a few short weeks before, he would have expected Bashir either to be joyfully surprised when Garak eventually returned from the Gamma Quadrant or, if he had figured out the deception, to find Garak after work and volunteer to come along. But Bashir was no longer his, and had become unpredictable.

"I really must remember to stop underestimating you, Doctor," Garak said aloud. "How did you know?"

"You mean that you were lying about the contents of the message? You said you'd given up on the Cardassian survivors who were lost in the Gamma Quadrant. Well, Ziyal was right; you're not the giving up sort."

"Very good, Doctor." Garak struggled to control his frustration. "You've come a long way from the naive young man I met five years ago. You've become distrustful and suspicious. It suits you."

"I had a good teacher," Bashir replied. And he had. Oh, he had. "What did the message really say, Garak?" 

There was no point in hiding it. "It was a call for help from Enabran Tain."

"Tain? But you said you'd seen his ship destroyed by the Dominion."

"I did, but Enabran Tain was the head of the Obsidian order for twenty years. If he can survive that, he can survive anything." Bashir was silent. "I have to find him, Doctor. I owe it to him."

"You don't owe Tain anything. He had you exiled from Cardassia."

Alarm bells went off in the sleepiest parts of Garak's mind, the parts he had long struggled to keep alive without the constant intrigues of life as an Obsidian Order agent. He did owe Tain. Bashir knew this–had known it, at least–and would never have so blatantly discounted his loyalty, even if he didn't understand it.

Garak searched Bashir's face. There was no righteous indignation for a former lover going back down a destructive path toward an uncaring spymaster. In fact, there was nothing of the overtly emotional displays Garak had come to expect from Bashir. There was only questioning, mild enough not to draw attention but firm enough to allow no escape. This wasn't his doctor.

This was an interrogation, and he would have to play along.

"Yes," Garak allowed, "but aside from that, we were very close. He was my...mentor, and I'm not going to turn my back on him. If it will make you feel better, you can come with me. All you have to do is come up with an excuse why you need the runabout and we could leave immediately."

"So let me get this straight. You want me to lie to my commanding officer, violate Starfleet regulations, and go with you on a mission into the Gamma Quadrant which will probably get us both killed?"

You would have before, Garak thought. If you are the man I've loved, you still will.

"I'm ready when you are," he said aloud.

"In that case, let's go to Captain's Sisko's office," said the Changeling.


	5. Chapter 5

In Sisko's office, Garak felt more alive than he had felt since the last time he had held the doctor–his doctor–in his arms. He was swimming against the undercurrents of what Sisko knew, what this faux-Bashir knew, and what he couldn't let them know he knew. He was loving every moment of it.

Sisko could be another Changeling, but Garak doubted it. Bashir was easy enough to impersonate at a distance; all bouncing enthusiasm for medicine and discovery, some clumsy sexual advances, and most people wouldn't know the difference.

By contrast, Sisko was strongly principled, but deeply emotional, sometimes volatile. The Bashir Changeling had slipped up several times, in retrospect, by failing to mimic the real Bashir's bizarre overenthisiasm and relentless optimism, but had never slipped enough to draw attention. If the Changelings had difficulty mimicking that level of day-to-day excitement, it would be nearly impossible to simulate Sisko's boisterous playfulness and rousing speeches (which had become legendary even in Quark's bar, among people who had never directly experienced one) without drawing unwanted attention. Sisko was also deeply involved in his staff; had he been replaced, those close to the captain–Lieutenant Dax, Major Kira, young Jake Sisko–would certainly have not failed to notice.

Still, it was best not to tip his hand. If the faux Bashir knew that Garak knew of his deception, the situation would become unpredictably dangerous, and as a rule, Garak preferred to avoid danger. As nonchalantly as possible, he explained the true meaning of Tain's message to Sisko. 

"Most of it was identification code. The rest was just one word, 'Alive,' repeated over and over again." Repeated exactly six times per transmission, but Bashir didn't need to know he'd noticed that. "It should be easy enough to triangulate the source. Captain, Tain might not be alone. There could be others. Troops from the Cardassian-Romulan fleet, survivors from the Dominion attack on New Bajor, and even crew members from the Federation ships that disappeared in the Gamma Quadrant. This is a mission of mercy. You can't ignore it."

"I'm still not totally convinced that it's a genuine message," Sisko said, "but I suppose there's only one way to find out."

"Captain, you can't let him go. It's too dangerous." Well, that was interesting. What did it mean if the Changeling didn't want him to go?

"Your concern is touching, Doctor, but I assure you I can take care of myself," Garak said pleasantly.

"Maybe you can, but you're still not going alone." Sisko had given Garak the perfect opening. Maybe he could get the Changeling off the station and into close quarters, where they couldn't run.

"Doctor, I think you've just volunteered," he grinned hopefully.

"Doctor Bashir isn't going anywhere," Sisko declared, and assigned him Lieutenant Commander Worf instead. Wherever Garak was going, wherever Tain was drawing him, he would be taking Deep Space Nine's first line of defense with him.

"The Gamma Quadrant? You can't go to the Gamma Quadrant," Ziyal exclaimed over dinner the evening Garak and Worf were due to depart.

"Oh, I can and I will. I have to." Garak returned. "The man I am going to find...he was my mentor and my patron. Whatever things he has done since, we were once very close. Ziyal, you must understand that family, any kind of family, is of utmost importance to the Cardassian way of life."

"Then stay," the dear young woman insisted. "If something were to happen to you, I don't know what I'd do."

"Oh, I'm sure you could find someone else to eat your meals with. Not that you'd have to. I fully intend to return."

"It's not just the meals."

"Yes, I know. I'm the only other Cardassian on the station."

"It's not that either. You know that. It's just that you're so kind."

Garak sighed. "My dear, you're young, so I realise that you're a poor judge of character."

"Garak, please. You know how I feel about you."

Garak met her eyes reluctantly. To her, the expression of their nearly-familial bond would feel like a betrayal to her father, a fact that made her confession all the more precious.

"And you know how I feel," he said softly. "You know that out here, I'm exiled and alone, and a long way from home, and when I'm with you it doesn't feel so bad. You know I'm proud to call you a friend, and I'm proud of who you are." He took her hand, gratified when she pressed their fingertips together in a familial embrace. At least he had taught her something of being Cardassian, he thought.

"If you were in trouble," he told her earnestly, "if you were far away from home, I would rush to your aid and do whatever I could to help. You must understand that I am going now for the same reason. But Ziyal, no matter what happens, no matter how bleak things may look, I promise you I will come back. You have my word."

"I believe you," she murmured.

"Take your hands off her!" Garak registered the roaring voice almost as an afterthought as he found himself rushing backwards, his greatest enemy's hands at his throat. His back hit the hard metal bars of the second-floor railing, and he instinctively grabbed one and held on for his life.

"Yadik! No!" Ziyal's voice rang out through Quark's. Garak dimly wondered whether she was talking to Dukat or to him.

"You touch my daughter again, I'll kill you," Dukat growled.

"Let him go," Ziyal begged. "Please."

"Go ahead, kill me," Garak spat. "She'll never forgive you, you know."

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" Quark's voice cut through the roar of blood in Garak's ears. "I don't know what's going on here, but I'm sure it's no excuse to act like a pair of Klingons."

"I'll act as I please, Ferengi," Dukat growled.

"Then you'll excuse me while I call security. I'm sure Odo will get a big thrill out of having you locked up in one of his holding cells."

Ziyal's voice was admirably chiding as she set a hand gently on Dukat's arm. "Yadik, please."

"Public opinion seems to be running against you," Garak pushed his fear back as he always did, with glib taunts. Dukat wasn't fooled; he almost rolled his eyes as he loosened his grip and allowed Garak to stand again, still uncomfortably close to the edge. "You know, I think that actually helped my back." This time, it was Quark's turn to roll his eyes, a reassuring indication that Garak's carefully cultivated mask of innocuity was firmly in place.

"Let's go, Garak," said the bartender. "I'll buy you a drink."

Garak almost turned to follow, but turned back as the realization that he would almost certainly not be able to see Ziyal again before he left threatened to overwhelm him.

"A pleasure as always, my dear," he said as casually as he could. They pressed their palms one last time. "You do have a lovely daughter," he said to Dukat. "She must take after her mother."

He made his way down the winding staircase to the first floor of Quark's and had his complimentary drink in relative peace. In deference to the professional courtesy they usually observed, Quark had seated Garak in the perfect position to utilize Quark's labyrinth of strategically-placed mirrors, and he kept an eye on Dukat while he drank.

Dukat and Ziyal argued quietly for a few minutes before leaving. Garak fought back a twinge of regret that the last thing he had been able to say to Ziyal had incited her father's anger toward both of them. As he packed his small bag and made his way to the runabout, he busied himself with devising ways to make it up to her. He was both surprised and relieved to discover that Ziyal had shaken off her father and was waiting for him at the runabout.

"My father wants me to go to Cardassia," she told Garak. "He says that it's no longer safe here."

"Do you want to go?"

"I promised to wait for you."

"That's not an answer, my dear."

"Then no. Oh, I know it makes me a terrible daughter, but when I think about where I belong, I can't help but feel that...that my home is here, with you and Nerys."

"Ziyal." For once in his life, Garak dredged to the surface every drop of sincerity he had left. He grasped her upper arms gently, as a father would. "Ziyal, listen to me. Don't make the same mistakes I have made. Respect for your father is important, but blind obedience to a man who sees you only as a pawn will never earn you his love or gratitude. You must decide where your home is, even if it means creating it for yourself on some derelict space station in a war zone." He gestured at the corridor around them, smiling weakly at his own expense. Ziyal's eyes were suspiciously dewy.

"Thank you, Garak." She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek, and for once, Garak didn't mind her demonstrative Bajoran habit. "When you return, I'll be waiting."

And just like that, she was gone. Within moments, Garak found himself missing her.

He missed her even more as his shuttle ride with Worf stretched into its fifth hour. The Klingon's silence was oppressive, and all of Garak's attempts to engage or provoke the taciturn security officer into conversation were dismissed or ignored. Eventually, Garak resigned himself to the unpleasant reality of his own thoughts.

It was almost a relief when the Jem'Hadar fleet emerged from a nebula deep in Dominion space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second update as an apology for the delay between chapters.


	6. Chapter 6

The Jem'Hadar jostled and pushed Garak and Worf through processing. They were scanned, prodded, scanned again. They submitted to hair samples and blood draws, were scanned yet again, and were finally set loose in the compound with an order to bunk in Barracks Six and a warning that to leave the dome meant certain death.

All the while, Garak was cataloguing. Numbers and apparent strength of the Jem'Hadar guards (many and insurmountable); weak points in security between critical areas (none); and the number and surprising variety of the prisoners housed along with them in Internment Camp 371 all found neat homes in his organized mind. Garak was so absorbed by the prisoners passing by that he didn't fully register the sounds of fighting until he and Worf were nearly on top of a low-lit fighting ring where a Jem'Hadar was sparring with a wild-haired Klingon.

"General Martok," Worf said in surprise. The Jem'Hadar commander–Itak'Ita, Garak recalled–broke up the fight, and Worf rushed to Martok's side.

"Do I know you?" the general asked gruffly.

"I am Worf, son of Mogh."

"Yes, I've heard of you."

"How long have you been here?"

"Two years." Martok looked Garak up and down. "If you are Worf then you must be Garak. He said you would come."

"Who?" Garak asked, but the sinking feeling in his gut told him he knew exactly who Martok meant.

"You'd better come with me."

Martok led them to a dark and bare barracks. Eight flimsy cots lined the walls on either side of a pair of hard benches that looked like they had once sat over foot lockers. Martok gestured around the room as he made introductions.

"This is Worf and Garak. This is Commander Vriha, Subcommander Havraha," he paused for a moment. "We call the Breen Mysterious Ila, and that is–"

"Tain." Garak said, moving to his mentor's side.

"What is wrong with him?" Worf asked.

"It's his heart," Martok replied.

"Really?" Garak chuckled despite himself. "There are many people who'd say he doesn't have one."

Garak found he couldn't tear his eyes away from his dying father, but Martok sounded almost chiding as he said, "He was convinced that you would come."

"He knew I had no choice." Gently, Garak shook Tain's arm. "Tain. Tain, I'm here." The old man stirred slightly. Opened his eyes. Took a small but labored breath.

"My message. It got through?"

"It did."

"Where are the others?"

"There are no others. Just Commander Worf and me."

"You allowed yourselves to be taken prisoner?" Tain's fury had long struck terror into the hearts of his subordinates and enemies alike, but lying on his bed, he seemed small and his anger was toothless. "I taught you better than that. Living on that station has dulled your wits."

Garak stifled his anger. His parting words to Ziyal rang in his ears. He had obeyed and obeyed, struggled and striven but, even so close to his death, Tain was unable to understand anything that was less than perfect.

"That's it?" Garak asked tersely, and suddenly it wasn't his father before him but a helpless man in the interrogation chair. He controlled himself enough to ask, "after I've come all this way, after all I've been through, that's all you have to say to me?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to say, 'Thank you, Elim. Your loyalty is most gratifying. I knew I could count on you.'"

"But I couldn't count on you, could I? All you've done is to doom us both." Tain's head fell back to the pillow, and Garak struggled through a deep, steadying breath. It was time to redirect.

"General," he said, standing to face the Klingons. "What exactly was Tain working on before he fell ill?"

To his credit, Martok seemed completely unfazed by the family drama he had witnessed. "Before this asteroid was converted into a prison, the Dominion used to mine ultritium here. There was no dome. Each of these barracks had its own life support system embedded in the walls. There's a crawl space just behind those panels."

"And Tain was able to modify that life support system to create a subspace transmitter?"

"He and a woman who was here before him. A student of his, apparently. Siana. She spent hours in there working every day for months on end, until she died. When Tain showed up, he took over and did the same thing. Cardassians. They're clever people, especially that one. But in just a few days at best, he'll be dead, as well."

"Then it is up to us to be clever," Worf said with all the blind, optimistic self-assuredness of a typical Starfleet officer. Garak could have strangled him.

He didn't get a chance to, however, since a moment later, the Romulan Commander burst in.

"They're releasing him from isolation," she announced. Her gaze flickered, likely out of habit, to the wall panel behind Tain.

"Who?" Worf asked.

"A friend," said Martok helpfully.

"Move!" The harsh shout sounded directly outside the barracks as Commander Vriha shifted out of the way of the incoming guards. A slender figure flew into view, steadied himself shakily against the doorjamb and, as if drawn by some unseen force, looked up into Garak's eyes.

"Julian," Garak whispered. He glanced up to check if the guards had noticed; the last thing they needed in a prison with bored guards and a fighting ring was to be noticed, for any reason. The guards, however, were as oblivious as they were bored. Having derived as much amusement as they could from returning their charge to his barracks, they carried on down the cold metal hallway and out of sight. As soon as they were gone, Garak was at Julian's side, a steadying hand at the small of his back.

"Garak," Julian said. "So Tain was able to send the message. Did you bring reinforcements?"

"I'm afraid that exiled Cardassian tailors are no longer afforded the customary luxuries we once enjoyed, so no military caravan for me. Captain Sisko was generous enough to send me here with Commander Worf and a runabout." 

Tremors quaked through Julian's legs and up his back, where Garak's hand still rested. Garak had seen similar symptoms in prisoners who had been forced to sit in small spaces for extended periods. Gently, he guided Julian to the nearest bench. Within moments, Subcommander Havraha appeared with what looked like a small shard of metal. Julian nodded his thanks and leaned over to sharpen the blade on the edge of the bench before sliding the shard over the end of his finger. He smeared his blood on the bench. The red streak remained motionless.

"B negative, in case you were wondering," the doctor quipped weakly. He handed the blade around, and soon, a rainbow of reds and greens adorned the edge of the bench.

"Well, it appears we are all who we seem to be," Martok said.

"If the blood screenings can be trusted," grumbled Worf.

"They can't, not entirely," Julian said tiredly. "The Changelings absorb a small amount of blood so they can pass blood tests in critical locations. It's all we've got, though."

Of course the Changelings had found a way around the blood tests. Despite himself, Garak was filled with admiration for the elegant solution. There were more important matters at hand, however. He knelt down next to Julian.

"When were you brought here?" he asked, hoping his tone was less tender than he felt.

"Over a month ago, during the burn treatment conference on Meezan Four. I went to bed the first night and woke up here." Garak waited for the accusations to start, for Julian to ask why Garak hadn't realized immediately that he was gone, but the admonition didn't come. Relief swelled in his chest. He had followed Tain's signal for his father's forgiveness, and instead he had found Julian's.

"The same thing happened to me, except I was hunting sabre bear out on Kang's Summit," said Martok, breaking Garak out of his reverie. "Little did I know I was being stalked as well. And now I'm told the Changeling that replaced me has caused the death of countless Klingons. It is a grave dishonor."

"You are not to blame," said Worf.

"I can only imagine what my replacement is up to on the station," Julian said.

"We must escape and warn Captain Sisko before that Changeling carries out his mission," said Worf decisively.

"And how do you propose we do that?" Garak asked. Martok chuckled.

"We started out with one Cardassian spy, then we happened on another when we lost her," he growled. "And now, in the eleventh hour, when that replacement is on death's door, we find yet another. Don't worry. You'll think of something."


	7. Chapter 7

At the first opportunity, Garak drew Julian away from the group and around the edge of the complex, letting his eyes flick over seams and potential access points and cataloguing the paths and habits of the guards from different vantage points. Julian chuckled weakly at his side, and answered Garak's questioning look by saying, "It's just that Tain walked this exact route when he first arrived here. I don't think you'll find a way out, but somehow it's reassuring that you're trying." The doctor's smile was sincere but strained.

"Are you alright, my dear?" Garak asked, as warmly as he could allow. He clasped his hands behind his back to stop them from reaching for Julian.

"As well as can be expected," Julian said. His tone was neutral, but he avoided looking in Garak's eyes. Something was very wrong. "Was...ah..." Julian struggled to change the subject. "Was my replacement very convincing?"

"For a while." Garak would allow Julian's evasion for the time being, he decided. The young man had only just gotten out of solitary confinement, after all. "I imagine I would have caught on sooner had he not broken things off as soon as he got to the station."

Julian nodded as if he had expected that. "I wondered if he would do that. I couldn't think of how else he could hope to keep you in the dark."

"He did give himself away, however, when he stopped me from stealing a runabout to pursue Tain's distress call."

"Oh? You think I'd simply step aside and let you take charge of whatever Starfleet equipment you want?" He lowered his voice. "My dear Mister Garak, I believe you only keep me around to achieve your own ends."

Garak basked in the glow of Julian's amused tone. He allowed himself a small smile.

"Of course, my dear. Why, half the doctors in the quadrant are at my beck and call."

"How impressive."

"Yes. Most of them have better taste in literature."

"Ah, then perhaps you should have left me to die here and seduced my replacement instead."

"You? Never." Garak muttered. "But as for Tain, I should have let that monster die forgotten and alone."

"Frankly, I'm glad you came for us. Misery loves company," Julian said, but Garak was not to be pacified.

"All my life I've done nothing but try to please that man. I let him mold me–let him turn me into a mirror image of himself–and how did he repay me? With exile. But I forgave him. And here, in the end, I thought maybe, just maybe, he could forgive me."

"From what I've seen of him over the last month, he doesn't come across as the forgiving type."

They had completed their circuit of the compound, and were approaching the door of Barracks Six. Garak pulled up short of the door, drawing out just a few more moments with his doctor.

“I’ve been a fool," Garak concluded. "Let this be a lesson to you, Doctor, perhaps the most valuable one I can ever teach you: Sentiment is the greatest weakness of all.” As soon as he said it, Garak regretted his words.

“If that’s true, it’s a lesson I’d rather not learn.” A tremor of emotion shook Julian's voice and brought Garak’s eyes, which had been darting frantically up and down the corridor, to rest on the doctor’s. For the second time in two days, Garak shed his mask and let himself be read. He bared his anguish and fear, his resentment for Enabran Tain, his weeks of longing for Julian, and in return he drank in Julian's own love and longing behind a sudden wall of intent. He took a deep breath and drew himself up, preparing for whatever it was Julian was about to say. Julian followed his motion instinctively, leaning forward and opening his mouth to speak

The barracks door opened.

"I thought you might want to know. If you wish to speak to Tain do it now, before it's too late," Martok announced.

Garak nodded his thanks and started, almost trancelike, for the barracks door, only to register a sudden absence at his side. He looked back to find Julian still standing at the edge of the wide common room, looking more lost than Garak had ever seen him. Garak prided himself on finding creative solutions to almost any problem, but in that moment there was only one course of action, custom and Cardassian pride be damned.

"Come along, Doctor," he said gently. Julan blinked, startled, and followed him into the barracks.

Garak thanked whatever gods would listen that Julian seemed to instinctively understand the need for silence. As Martok closed the door behind them, he settled gently onto the cot across from Tain's. Garak spared him a grateful look before turning to Tain.

"Elim? Elim, is that you?" the dying man asked.

"It's me."

"Everything's gone dark. I can't see you. Are you alone?"

"Yes." Garak turned meaningfully to Julian, hoping he would understand the import of being included in this most sacred of rites. "There's no one else but you and me."

"Surjak, Memad, Brun. They can't be trusted. They must be dealt with," the spymaster commanded.

"I've already taken care of it."

"What about Gul Vorlem? Were you been able to contact him?"

"Years ago."

"The Romulan ambassador?"

"He's gone," Garak sighed. Contempt warred with pity in his chest at the sight of the once-great man reduced to a gibbering husk in a foreign prison, reliving a past that he had not touched in decades. "All your enemies are dead," Garak reassured him.

"Good," Tain grunted. "A man shouldn't allow his enemies to outlive him."

"Then you can die happy. Unless you still consider me your enemy."

"Elim, promise me one thing." Even dying, Tain deflected. Very well.

"I'm listening," Garak returned tersely.

"Don't die here. Escape. Live." It sounded so nice. So giving. But it wasn't, was it? Garak strengthened his resolve.

"Let me guess: So I can make the Dominion pay for what they've done to you?"

"You wouldn't deny an old man his revenge, would you?"

"I'll do as you ask on one condition: That you don't ask me this favour as a mentor, or a superior officer." He took a steadying breath and spoke clearly, so that Julian could hear. "But as a father asking his son."

"You're not my son." The thrice-damned liar. Was this what Garak would become? A man so trapped by his own untruths that even his final moments he tortured those closest to him? Would he in his turn make Ziyal suffer as he was suffering? Garak fought back the impulse to shout his rage at his father. He had been renowned as an interrogator, and he knew how to apply pressure. It surely wouldn't take much.

"Father," he said earnestly. "Father, you're dying. For once in your life, speak the truth." Just that easily, Tain broke.

"I should have killed your mother before you were born. You have always been a weakness I can't afford." Even in his truths, Tain could not be kind.

"So you've told me, many times. Listen, Enabran. All I ask is that for this moment, let me be your son."

A faraway look drained into Tain's unseeing eyes. "Elim, remember that day in the country? You must have been almost five."

"How can I forget it? It was the only day."

"I can still see you on the back of that riding hound. You must have fallen off a dozen times but you never gave up."

"I remember limping home. You held my hand."

"I was very proud of you that day."

And then he was gone.

Garak pulled the bedsheet over his father’s face, fulfilling his duty to protect the body of a Cardassian from the prying eyes of inferior races. Tain had been old-fashioned, and it was almost certainly the least Garak could do.

“Garak...” The word hung heavy between them, saying everything and nothing.

Julian rose quietly and, with only a moment's hesitation, laid his hand gently on Garak's shoulder. "Elim," he said gently. Garak turned to him and rested his hands loosely around Julian's waist. Julian bent his forehead to Garak's and they stood in silence, sharing their grief.

"Elim," Julian finally murmured. "Elim, we won't have long, but I have to tell you." He pulled back slightly to look into Garak's eyes.

"Tain and I were brought here together when the Jem'Hadar raided his compound, two weeks after Tain had me abducted from the burns conference. He was looking for information that would help him regain leverage against the Federation while they were occupied fighting the Dominion."

"If he weren't already dead, I would kill him myself," Garak said darkly.

"Elim, please. When he didn't get what he wanted from me, he combined samples of our DNA–yours and mine–to give himself leverage in my interrogation." Julian's voice faltered. He laid a hand gently over his lower belly. "Elim, there's...there's a baby."

No.

Not on the eve of war.

Not in a Dominion prison camp.

Not through Tain's cruel meddling.

"Do the guards know?" Garak finally asked.

"No. At least, I don't think they do. I haven't told any of the other prisoners either."

"Good. Best not to call attention to you if we can avoid it. Do you–"

He was cut short by the sound of the door and the unmistakably heavy tramp of Klingon boots. Garak's hands fell discreetly away from Julian's waist as Worf and Martok entered the barracks.

"Gentlemen," said Garak curtly, "I don't know about you, but my business here is done."

"Then I suggest we find a way out of here," he replied.


	8. Chapter 8

By unspoken agreement, the residents of Barracks Six split away in small groups, wandering aimlessly through the common areas of the prison while they waited for the guards to remove Tain's body. Julian led Garak across the compound to a sheltered alcove that looked like it had once been an access point for air circulation into Barracks Three.

"Garak, I'm sorry," Julian said as he leaned against the alcove's back wall and tried to ignore the pipe fitting jutting into his lumbar region.

"Don't be. After all, he did have me exiled." Garak smiled thinly. "A man should never allow his enemies to outlive him," he quoted. His tone was glib, but there was carefully controlled tension in his face that spoke volumes about his turbulent emotions.

"I could almost believe that bitterness if you hadn't come to rescue him anyway."

"I had a duty to him. Perhaps a wiser man would not have allowed himself to be used as I did, but as I told you before, giving in to sentiment is a grave mistake. One that I can't seem to stop myself from making."

"I'm grateful for that."

They stood in silence for a while, watching from their secluded vantage point as the prisoners and guards milled idly around the dome's central ring. For a few minutes, Julian could almost imagine that they were back on Deep Space Nine, watching the crowds on the promenade from one of the tables in the Replimat and squeezing the last few minutes out of their lunch breaks just to be near each other. A small cluster of Cardassian military officers stood together near a support beam, their heads bent together in conference. Vriha and Havraha stood at the archway between the main chamber and the fighting ring, the perfect vantage point to see the entire complex. Mysterious Ila, or a person Julian assumed was Mysterious Ila, since he had seen no other Breen among the prisoners, marched a slow and measured path back and forth across the center of the compound. Four point six meters. Turn. Four point six meters. Turn.

Garak saw them before Julian did. From under lowered brows, his sharp blue eyes caught and held on a group of four Jem'Hadar moving in an unnecessarily military formation from the administration block directly toward Barracks Six. They emerged from the barracks scant moments later. A few of the Cardassians in the common area stood to attention as the guards returned the way they had come, a sheet-wrapped bundle suspended between them.

"He was a traditional man," Garak murmured. "He wouldn't have liked for his body to be dealt with by non-Cardassians."

"There's no helping that, I'm afraid."

"No, there's not." Garak paused uncomfortably. "There's something else that can't be helped that we should discuss, Doctor."

For a moment, Julian didn't follow. Then he realized what Garak had meant. Panic rose in him, bile burning the back of Julian's throat as an uncertain future spread itself out before him.

"Garak, you should know that...that I treasure this chance. That I won't give it up. If we do escape, if it makes things more difficult for you, I can go away. No one needs to know," he babbled.

"My dear," Garak sighed. "My dear, I couldn't ask that of you."

Julian's eyes widened. "Oh."

"Sentiment," Garak mused. He glanced back to the main floor of the compound and his brow furrowed. "Now, what are they doing?"

In the open section of the dome, Jem'Hadar guards were herding the prisoners into a cluster in the center of the floor. A pair of soldiers set out around the perimeter, flushing stray prisoners out of the barracks.

"Have you seen them do this before?" Garak demanded.

"Never," Julian admitted. Garak nodded distractedly.

"Fine then. There's nowhere for us to hide, so we'll have to go out there. Stay behind me."

"What? Why?"

Garak rounded on him, his eyes flashing with protective determination.

"You just said you wouldn't give up the child. Has that changed?" he hissed.

"No," Julian said, shocked by the fiercely whispered outburst.

"Good. Because now you must protect yourself. Whatever you did to get yourself thrown into solitary confinement, you will not do it again. You will keep your head down and you will stay quiet, because the only chance we have to get our child out of this prison safely is to keep you alive, do you understand? Even if it means watching me or your friends die, you must keep yourself safe."

Julian nodded dumbly. There were a thousand things he wanted to say to Garak, but the Jem'Hadar were closing in on their alcove from both sides and Garak had grasped his elbow and was pulling him out to stand with the other residents of Barracks Six.

"Who is that?" Worf asked Martok as they approached.

"Deyos. The Vorta who runs this camp."

"No talking!" snapped Ikat'ika.

Despite Garak's warning, Julian couldn't help himself. "Touchy, aren't they?" he snarked as the Vorta called for attention.

"All Cardassian prisoners, step forward," Deyos demanded. Sharing apprehensive glances with the handful of other Cardassians, Garak stepped slowly away from Julian's side. "I am pleased to announce," said the Vorta, "that hostilities between our peoples have ended. As of today, Cardassia has joined the Dominion. Therefore, you're all being sent home. Congratulations on your new status as Dominion citizens."

As the Jem'Hadar began ushering the Cardassians out, Garak looked back to Julian. His brilliant eyes all but shouted a promise to use this precious opportunity to mount a rescue.

Julian held his gaze raptly as hope bloomed in his chest. When the Cardassian hesitated, as if choking back a hundred spoken messages, the doctor raised his eyebrows to remind Garak to step forward with the others.

With a final, silent confirmation, Garak stepped into line, the pins of an escape plan falling into place even as he prepared to follow the last of his countrymen past the Vorta.

"Not you, Mister Garak," Deyos barked.

"Excuse me?" Garak asked, his machinations grinding slowly to a halt as the opportunity began to slip away.

"You're staying."

"Well there must be some sort of misunderstanding. The last time I checked, I was a Cardassian." Garak was waffling, but Julian could hardly blame him for that.

"Not a very popular one, I'm afraid. At least not with the head of the new Cardassian government." Deyos seemed to be savoring his rare opportunity to mete out a punishment in the stagnant prison.

"And who would that be?" A dozen possibilities sprung to Garak's mind, each accompanied by the political leverage that might yet secure his release. He was unprepared, however, for the Vorta's answer.

"Gul Dukat."

To Garak's credit, he managed to keep calm until the six of them were back in their barracks.

"Damn him!" he growled as the door closed behind them. "Damn his petty vendettas and damn whatever spies and informants told him I was here."

"I'm sure he thinks you deserve it, Garak," Julian said reasonably.

"If you ask me, he deserves an assassination."

"Be that as it may," Martok interjected, "we've lost an avenue of escape." Out of long-standing habit, he glanced up at Vriha, who was stationing Havraha at the door.

"All clear," she said.

"The transmitter Tain used to contact the station," said Worf. "Where is it?"

Deftly, Julian slid their key, a hook-ended slip of scrap metal left over from the dome's construction, out from under Tain's cot and opened the panel. Worf and Garak leaned in for a better look.

"You have to crawl through the hole and kind of slide your way up into the wall," Julian explained.

"It took Siana almost a year to modify the old life support system into a transmitter," Martok said, a hint of admiration in his voice.

"How did Tain operate it?" Worf asked.

"He wired the message and the transmission coordinates directly into the system circuitry. That way all he had to do was connect the transmitter to the power grid and let it run."

"Could the coordinates and the message be changed?"

"You're planning to contact the runabout." It was Garak's turn to be impressed.

"We could activate the transporter and beam ourselves onto the ship," Worf confirmed.

"And run like hell," Julian agreed.

"Re-encoding the transmitter won't be easy," Garak said cautiously. "We'd have to reconfigure the array one circuit at a time."

"Can you do it?" Julian asked hopefully.

"Me?"

"I'm no engineer, and neither are the rest of us. If we were, well…" he didn't need to say out loud that Tain might still be alive had his heart not been strained by the physical stress of the narrow crawlspace. As little as Tain had been liked, any one of them would have spared him the pain if they had been able to. He shifted closer to Garak. "You, on the other hand, my dear Mister Garak, are a man of many hidden talents. If you can't do it, nobody can."

"It's nice to feel needed," Garak said aloud. Silently, he opened his expression, allowing Julian to see that he found the doctor's crude manipulation to be charming. Here was what he had been missing for so many weeks: his doctor, innocent and bumbling and optimistic. For a moment, it almost felt like they were already home.


	9. Chapter 9

Garak's first foray into the crawlspace was more frightening for Julian than any of Tain's work shifts had been. Martok was just as affected, since he had not yet had time to develop confidence in Garak the way he had for Siana and Tain.

"He's taking too much time," he grumped.

"An adaptation like this will not be easy." Worf said reasonably. "We cannot expect immediate results."

"Still, he's taking too much time."

It would be easier to oblige Martok's impatience than to confront him. Julian leaned toward the crawlspace.

"Garak, how's it coming along?"

Garak's response was tinny and muffled.

"I only wish I were still a member of the Obsidian Order," he deadpanned. "This would make a wonderful interrogation chamber. Tight quarters, no air, bad lighting, random electric shocks. It's perfect."

"Sounds like you're enjoying yourself," Julian said with a grin.

"If you'd like, I'd happily trade places with you."

"I suppose you could give me a crash course in Cardassian field engineering. I should be ready to take over from you in what, five or six weeks?"

Their banter was cut short by Vriha's sharp announcement, "Visitors."

"Quiet," Julian called to Garak. He deftly closed up the panel and replaced the cot just as several Jem'Hadar soldiers, led by Ikat'ika, entered the barracks.

"It's time," Itak'ita said, staring at Worf with something akin to hunger in his eyes.

"I am ready," Worf replied. Itak'ita's answering smile was grim, the smile of a man who does not really know what smiling is for.

"I've been looking forward to this," he said.

"So have I."

Worf and Martok stalked away with the Jem'Hadar. Julian immediately went for the cot. WIth Havraha's help, he shifted the bed out of the way and opened the wall hatch. Garak scrambled out, grabbing desperately for Julian as he struggled to his feet.

"That was thoroughly unpleasant," he panted, his hand a vice on Julian's arm. Behind him, Havraha replaced the wall panel and shoved the cot closer to the wall, and Garak gratefully flopped down onto it.

"Are you alright?" Julian asked gently as he catalogued Garak's clammy skin and labored breathing. He knelt in front of Garak and pressed his fingers to the Cardassian's temple to find his pulse. His other hand settled, almost of its own accord, on Garak's shoulder. The gesture was intimate in Cardassian culture, but calming. Julian caught Garak's quick glance toward the studiously oblivious Romulans before he relaxed into the caress.

"I'm fine," Garak lied, working to control his breathing. "It's just much hotter in there than I thought. I got a little lightheaded. Give me a minute and I'll go back in there."

"No," Julian said firmly. "You need more than a minute. Your pulse is racing, and I don't even want to think about your blood pressure. Maybe you should wait until tomorrow."

Garak leaned forward, his eyes sparking intently mere centimeters from Julian's, his broad hand suddenly latched firmly around Julian's waist to allow his thumb to graze over Julian's belly.

"Do you want to get off this hellhole?" he hissed.

"You know I do."

"Then let me get back to work."

Julian held strong. "Rest first. From here on in, you can take a fifteen minute break every hour. Doctor's orders."

Garak searched Julian's face for any sign of relenting. His eyes were intense and he was so close and warm that it was all Julian could do to maintain his determination. He was suddenly very aware that he was kneeling between Garak's legs, held in place by strong hands. He tried very much not to think about what the others saw, and put all his effort into staring back. After what seemed like years, Garak sighed and nodded.

"Fine. If my doctor says I should rest, I'll rest," he said. He cast a pointed glance toward where Vriha and Havraha were keeping watch at the door and let go of Julian.

Julian was adrift. He had never needed anything as much has he needed Garak in that moment. In the frantic hours since Garak's arrival, he had been swept along from task to task without a moment to regroup, but the sudden absence of Garak's warm hands left in its wake an aching desire for touch. In that instant, all of the loneliness and fear of the past weeks crashed over him. He was floating. He was isolated. He was lost.

And then, without having thought to move, he was in Garak's arms, sprawled awkwardly across the edge of the cot with his forehead pressed to Garak's shoulder ridge. His blood roared in his ears as he struggled to catch his breath. After a moment's hesitation, Garak's hands came to rest against his back, pulling him close.

Finally, Julian pulled away.

"I'm, ah… I'm going to go for a walk for a little while. Stretch my legs. You'd better not go back in there until I return."

"Alright, my dear," Garak said softly.

Vriha, her cheeks delicately tinged with green, moved away from the door as Julian approached and said, "Havraha, why don't you accompany the doctor? It's best to travel in groups."

Havraha nodded. Julian smiled faintly in return and, with a final nod good-bye, headed out to assess Worf in the fighting ring.

Almost as soon as they were gone, Vriha turned an appraising look on Garak.

"You're treading a dangerous path," she said.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Garak replied evenly.

"I'm just surprised that someone with your background would allow himself such an attention-drawing liaison."

"You'd know all about my background, wouldn't you? Oh, don't look so surprised, Commander." Garak stood to face the Romulan. "Like knows like, after all. Tell me, is Vriha even your name?"

"Is Garak yours?"

"In a sense," Garak allowed, tilting his head slightly to acknowledge her larger point. "You're right, of course. I can promise you we will be more careful in the future."

"It would be wise."

"Your concern is appreciated."

"My concern is for all of us, Mister Garak, and for the mission."

A tentative, evaluating silence settled between them. Garak hated silences.

"I truly do appreciate it. You've done a wonderful job," he finally said. "Keeping them safe, I mean."

"I couldn't keep them all safe," Vriha admitted. "I've lost three in the time I've been here."

"Nevertheless." Garak paused. He truly was grateful to Vriha for what he was sure was more intervention than the others were aware of in the group's day-to-day survival. Keeping the weaker members of a group alive in an environment like Internment Camp 371 was no small feat. It made what he had to say all the more difficult. "Julian is pregnant." There was a hefty pause before Vriha responded.

"I see." Another pause. "And you're his mate." It was a question and not a question, designed to provoke an outpouring of information without revealing what Vriha herself knew.

"I have a special interest in removing him and the child from this prison as soon as possible."

"I see," Vriha said again. "I assume you are telling me this for a reason." Her tone indicated that she knew exactly what the reason was, but that she would force him to say it anyway.

"The runabout has access to recorded life sign data for myself, Julian, Commander Worf, and General Martok. I can set it to pre-scan for their life signs as it beams me aboard to cut down on our escape time. For the two of you" he paused to nod to Vriha and the Breen "and Subcommander Havraha, I will have to scan manually prior to beam up. It will take time we may not have."

"Then you will leave us behind."

There was no point in trying to deceive an agent of the Tal Shiar. "I have no doubt that beaming you out will be our first priority, if it is at all possible. But if it is necessary to save Julian's life, then yes. I will leave you behind."

"I understand," Vriha said. A sudden clatter in the hall outside the barracks turned both of them toward the door, which slid open to admit an obviously-wounded Worf leaning heavily on Martok's shoulder, followed closely by Julian and Havraha.


	10. Chapter 10

While Julian patched up Worf's injuries, Garak struggled back into his own personal prison within a prison. The second time in, the crawlspace seemed impossibly tighter and hotter than it had only a short while before. Garak forced himself to take a deep, centering breath. The crawlspace was not the discipline chamber in the Obsidian Order training center. It was not the slowly-collapsing cell on Ab-Tzenketh that had nearly claimed his life. There were friends outside the hatch. Julian was outside the hatch. The walls were not closing in. The ceiling was not falling.

Garak focused on adapting one circuit, then another. He maintained his breathing exercises in the short periods between circuits, and for a while, it got easier. The alteration wasn't as difficult as he had feared; Siana had engineered it as she had most of her work, with a view toward future adaptability. Tain had clearly seen the wisdom in her established system, and had followed her modification style exactly when he took up her work.

Garak allowed himself a moment of mourning for Siana. She had been a brilliant engineer, if a bit tactless. Her skills had more than made up for the fact that she was too clumsy at subterfuge to be sent on missions unaccompanied. Garak had served as her handler only a few times, but his brief exposure to the older woman's vivacity and fiery passion for discovery and creative engineering had convinced him that, of the two of them, he would die first. This opinion hadn't been born of morbidity; merely of practicality. Someone with as much sheer talent as Siana should have been able to persist through any regime change. She had simply been too valuable for any administration to lose.

Garak was trying to imagine how a Changeling could ever have hoped to convincingly replace Siana when the fiber optic cables rigged into the life support system's power grid flickered. His breath caught in his throat. The light dimmed again. The hard wall pressed firmly into his back. The circuit under his hand sparked. The light flickered and relit. The ceiling was much closer than he remembered. Garak cleared his throat and addressed the light as firmly as he could.

"I'm sorry," he stammered, "but that's absolutely unacceptable. I'm under enough strain as it is. I can't have you quitting on me." He closed his eyes for a moment, frustrated by the uneasiness in his voice.

"Get a hold of yourself, Garak," he muttered. "After all, you haven't had one of these attacks in years." You shouldn't be having one now, not when it counts. "Yes, this is a tight, enclosed space. Yes, there's not a lot of room to move. But a disciplined mind" You have one of those, don't you, Garak? "does not allow itself to be sidetracked by niggling psychological disorders like" say it, say it out loud, take away its power "claustrophobia."

"Besides," he reminded himself, "this isn't like Tzenketh. The walls won't collapse in on you. Your friends are nearby. There's plenty of air. There's nothing to be concerned about." There, now, you've heard it out loud. It must be true.

You're a liar, Garak.

"Focus on the job," he ordered himself. "You're the only person who can contact the runabout. People are counting on you." The baby, but the baby's not real, not yet; you don't know its face or its mannerisms. Perhaps nothing is real but this tight, dark chamber. "Ziyal is counting on you. You promised her you'd come back, and that young lady has had quite enough disappointments in her life without you adding to them, so control yourself. You're stronger than this."

The walls were so close.

He tried again. "A disciplined mind," he began.

The lights went out.

He stifled a cry as he instinctively tried to leap backwards, but there was nowhere to go. There was nowhere to go. His heels collided with the wall, then his head. Escape. He had to escape.

He tried to turn too quickly and his head hit the wall again. The pain centered him; for a split second, he could think. Desperately, he threw himself against the wall again. Again. Great Hebitian gods, he would die in here. He would never see the light of day again. He would never see Julian or Ziyal. He would never see his child. He had failed and they were all going to die. Perhaps he was already dead.

"Garak."

The voice was Julian's, but it couldn't be Julian. Julian was dead, he was dead, they were all dead.

"Garak, you have to stop. You're making too much noise. Elim."

No, they hadn't died yet, had they?

"Elim."

No, they hadn't. It was Julian.

"The light," he tried to explain. "The light went out."

"I know. Come on, my love. I think you can take your break a little early." A hand curled around his arm and dragged him toward the light.

Leaving the crawlspace didn't quite feel real. The harsh glare in the barracks made everything look far away and false, like a set in a play that Garak was viewing from a balcony. Almost before he could register his surroundings, he was lying down on a cot. A blanket fell over his shoulder and a hand with slender fingers smoothed it down carefully. Garak registered the sensation dimly as he struggled to bring the far wall fully into focus.

"It would appear that he suffers from an acute form of claustrophobia. It's a wonder that he lasted as long as he did," Julian was saying from somewhere nearby.

"Then one of us will have to finish reconfiguring the transmitter." That was Commander Worf. Garak pulled himself far enough into consciousness to be deeply ashamed that his condition was being discussed openly, as if he weren't even present. He wondered if Tain had felt the same way when people discussed his heart.

"Who would you suggest could do that?" Julian challenged. Worf did not speak. "Exactly," the doctor said, and Garak discovered that embarrassment did not compare to the depth of the agony he felt as he realized he had failed Julian.

"If Garak can't contact the runabout, we're not going anywhere." So General Martok was there too. It was almost too much to bear.

Somewhere far away, the barracks door clanked open.

"It is time, Klingon," a harsh voice crowed.

"What is wrong with that one?" another Jem'Hadar asked.

"He's not feeling well. I'm sure he'll be alright in a day or two." Julian's voice was guarded but confident enough to assuage the guard's concerns. Heavy boots tramped out of the barracks and the door closed again.

"I'm going to monitor the fight." Commander Vriha. "Come along, Subcommander." The door opened and closed again.

Near the door, Julian sighed. Then he moved softly across the room and settled behind Garak on the edge of the cot.

"Garak?" A timid hand settled soothingly on his upper arm. "Do you want to talk? I'm no counselor, but I'm also not...I'm not angry, Garak. No one is. We just need to make another plan."

Garak fought past the lump of fear still settling out of his throat. "And what do you propose we do, Doctor?" he asked, closing his eyes tightly. "This prison is full of highly skilled individuals from the Cardassian military, the Tal Shiar, and who knows where else, and has been for years. Siana's was the first plan to even come close to succeeding."

"You can't possibly know that."

"Can't I? Would the guards be so bored if they believed that escape were even remotely possible? Would Deyos be so idly detached as to authorize a fighting ring? No, no one has ever escaped from this camp." He turned over with a wan smile. "I'm afraid I've doomed us all."

"Garak, I've never known you to be so morose. Where is the man who laughed off being beaten half to death by a pack of Klingons? Where is the man who bombed his own shop and then delighted in leading Odo on a merry chase after the phantom culprit?"

"He died in a Dominion prison." Garak replied flatly, but he wasn't quite able to stop a fond quarter-smile from tugging at the corner of his mouth at the young man's kind optimism.

"Oh, I very much doubt that," Julian said lightly. "He didn't seem like the dying-in-prison sort. No, I think he took the advice of his very handsome doctor, finished his work in short bursts, and survived."

"Do you?"

"Oh yes. Some say he's alive to this very day."

The fond smile took over Garak's face. Slowly he pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the cot with his back to Julian.

"My dear..." he said quietly, "my dear, you know I may fail again."

"I do," Julian replied sweetly, "but I'm not going to plan for it until it happens."

They sat in silence for a while, back to back, just the two of them and Mysterious Ila. After a few minutes, Garak leaned forward and put his head in his hands to think, grounding himself with the sensation of Julian's back pressed against his own and with the knowledge that Julian had faith in him. His own bitter laughter echoed through his mind. He had gone to the prison camp to find his father's approval, and instead he had Julian's. The dear boy was hopelessly misguided, but deeply endearing.

The opening door interrupted his thoughts. Commander Vriha and Subcommander Havraha entered, their faces full of concern, followed closely by a heavily limping Worf supported again by a gleeful General Martok. In an instant, Julian was up from the cot and at the warrior's side.

"Seven battles and seven victories!" cried Martok. "What hero of legend could have done as well?"

"Heroes of legend don't ache so much," Worf grumbled.

"Your Federation friends have taught you modesty, but this is no time for modesty! When we return to the Klingon Empire, I will seek out Keedera himself and tell him of your glorious tale. He will write a song worthy of you!"

"Well, be sure to send me a copy," Julian joked, even as he grimaced over Worf's wounds.

Martok grinned. "I'll do better than that. I can make sure that he mentions you, the healer who bound the warrior's wounds so he could fight again."

"Right now, the only part of the song that I wish to hear is the verse that tells of our escape. What good is defeating every Jem'Hadar soldier in this compound if it does not bring us closer to our freedom?" Worf spat.

Julian's eyes flickered toward Garak. "We may want to consider a new escape plan." His tone was flat, but there was a question embedded in his statement just for Garak. Even after six weeks in captivity, Julian had room for hope, and even if it was misguided, he had chosen to place what faith he had left in Garak. Damn.

"That won't be necessary." Garak said, surprising himself. "The original plan will work. I just have to finish what I started. After all, a verse about the Cardassian who panicked in the face of danger would ruin General Martok's song."

"That would be unfortunate," Martok agreed.

Garak drew himself up. "Now, if you'll excuse me, my dungeon awaits." And he returned to the fray.


	11. Chapter 11

Vriha stood guard at the door, glancing nervously between the corridor, the access panel, and Julian. Havraha watched her, his eyes no less tense than hers. Mysterious Ila was attentive for once. At least, Julian thought they were attentive. They certainly looked attentive, but it would have been hard not to be under the circumstances.

Worf and Martok were gone again, probably for the last time. Julian doubted that Worf could last much longer in the ring, a concern he had felt it was only fair to share with his fellow prisoners. Garak was using this as an excuse to push to finish the circuits in one extended final effort, and had already refused Julian's suggestions that he take a break twice.

Would Garak have another attack before he finished? If he did, Worf would undoubtedly die, and if Worf died before Garak finished, the Jem'Hadar would be seeking another sparring partner. This was a particular point of worry for Vriha, who had expressed the opinion that the cunning, stockily-built, and politically disfavored Garak was the next logical candidate to provide the soldiers with entertainment. If Garak were in the ring, well, there would be no escape for any of them.

These were by far the most likely outcomes, statistically speaking. Julian had put on a brave face for Garak, but he hadn't been able to lie to himself. If he were being honest, he probably hadn't fooled Garak either, but at least the Cardassian had graciously allowed him to believe he had.

Julian rocked restlessly on the cot across from Ila. The Breen shifted on their own cot. Fantastic, Julian thought. Even the Breen was on edge.

No one was more nervous than Garak, trapped yet again in the crawlspace, trapped in his mind, and trapped in a nightmare labyrinth of past moments that had nearly killed him. Garak was not usually the type to appeal to his noble ancestors for help, at least in part because, for most of his life, he hadn't known exactly which ancestors were actually his. Nevertheless, desperate times.

"Tain, I don't know if you can hear me," he whispered into the thick, unmoving air, "but if you can, I just want you to know: You may not have been much of a father, but I really wish you were alive right now. That way you could be in here instead of me."

Of course, if his father were in the crawlspace, he would have mocked Garak's attempt at deflection, but sometimes it was necessary to look on the bright side of things.

The transporter signals were all ready. Ten circuits to go. Just ten circuits to signal the runabout to initialize its power and boot its transporter relay. Ten circuits and he would be out of the crawlspace and activating a transporter signal to beam up the rest of the party. Ten circuits.

At the door, Vriha turned wide eyes to Julian. "Jem'Hadar," she warned.

A moment stretched into an eternity as Julian's world crumbled around him. In an instant, he felt the loss of Garak, of his friends, of the Alpha Quadrant, of the Federation, of the unborn child he would never know. His mind whirled with it.

But his parents hadn't paid for neural enhancement for nothing. He gathered himself together and did the only thing that was left to him to do. He followed the instincts trained into him by Starfleet and deferred to authority.

"Can we get him out?" he asked Vriha.

She shook her head. "No time."

Vriha squared her shoulders, clearly preparing to meet her fate standing. More gently than he had intended to, Julian tapped a warning on the crawlspace's access hatch and tried to pretend that it wouldn't be his last communication to Garak.

The Jem'Hadar barged in with all their usual tact.

"The Cardassian," snapped the apparent leader. "Where is he?"

Julian's throat was parched with nervousness. "Outside," he said slowly. "I suppose."

He barely had time to prepare for the blow before he was flying backwards, felled by the butt of a Jem'Hadar weapon. With enhanced agility, Julian twisted to land on his hip.

The amniotic fluid will cushion the fall, he thought desperately. It was still early days; the jerk couldn't have been hard enough to dislodge the placenta. People delivered healthy babies after worse shocks all the time. It would be fine, it would be fine, it would be fine.

"He is not outside," the Jem'Hadar was shouting. Suddenly, the whole room was alive with motion as the three soldiers spread out to find Garak's hiding place.

"Move!" a soldier ordered Ila. They complied, as usual, sullen and wordless, while Julian struggled to the hard bench in the center of the room, one hand hovering protectively over his belly.

"What do you want with him?" he groaned.

"He is to be put to death," the leader said dispassionately.

"Sir!"

The shout came from the corner near the access panel. Julian's spirit sank even further as a bright-eyed soldier held up the bent piece of metal that allowed them access to the crawlspace. He presented the tool to his towering leader and began searching for a door.

The leader looked over the key curiously, but only briefly. There was an easier way to learn what he wanted to know. He gestured toward Julian.

"If you wish to live, explain this."

Julian's breath caught in his throat. Five years before, he had nearly skipped onto Deep Space Nine in search of adventure and excitement, determined to become a medical legend, plying his trade in the tradition of frontier doctors like Christine Chapel and Leonard McCoy before him. In his wilder flights of fancy, he had imagined dodging through phaser fire to reach critically wounded officers, bodily defending his patients against strange Gamma Quadrant intruders, and staring boldly down the barrel of a phaser, unafraid to defend the Federation with his life. He had never really stopped to think what it would really mean to look down the barrel of a phaser.

Julian was terrified. Garak was going to lose him. Garak was going to lose him and the baby only days after losing his father. In a moment of horrible clarity, Julian realized that this much was inevitable. Worse, his death would almost certainly be in vain. There was no guarantee that his sacrifice would win enough time to save the others; that prospect was only one slim chance among many slim chances, most of which ended with most of them dead. Unfortunately, it was the only chance they had. Julian had finally gotten his chance to be a proper hero, simply because there was no other option than to die so that Garak might find the time to save some of the others.

So Julian, drawing on the far-off memories of his far-off dreams of glory, stared the Jem'Hadar directly in the eyes and did not speak.

"Explain," the soldier growled again.

Julian held his gaze levelly, bracing himself for another blow.

The Jem'Hadar took another step closer.

"I'll ask you for the last time. What is this?"

Julian gathered himself.

"It's either a self-sealing stem bolt or a reverse-ratcheting router. I'm just not sure," he said deliberately. It was coming. In a moment, he would be dead.

The Jem'Hadar whirled toward the far corner, took aim for the barest of moments...and vaporized Havraha.

Julian jumped to his feet in shock at the senseless killing as the soldier leveled his weapon at Vriha.

"She is next."

From the corner of his eye, Julian caught Vriha sizing up the situation, clearly preparing a surprise suicide attack, when the enthusiastic young Jem'Hadar called again from the corner.

"Sir! If you'll allow me?" He held out his hand for the key.

Inside the crawlspace, Garak switched off his light, his heart hammering in his chest. Five circuits. Only five circuits and they'd be out and on their way to Deep Space Nine. Without a weapon and with nowhere to hide, he would stand no chance against an armed Jem'Hadar in close quarters. Fighting was not an option. He focused his low-light vision and went back to work. Five circuits.

"What do you see?" a loud voice called from outside the crawlspace.

"I see nothing," a nearer voice answered. "It's dark."

Then the guard was gone. From outside, in the barracks, there was a burst of noise.

Julian blinked as an afterimage of the Jem'Hadar officer momentarily burned itself into his retinas. Behind where he had been standing, holding the officer's own weapon, was Mysterious Ila.

Vriha, never one to waste an opportunity, swung the medical kit out from under a nearby cot and toppled the second of the Jem'Hadar. The guard near the hatch found his feet and fired his own weapon, just in time to kill and be killed by Mysterious Ila. It was just Julian and Vriha versus one very armed and very well-trained Jem'Hadar.

Julian lunged toward the hatch key and tore away its protective wrapping to expose its sharp edge. Hardly stopping to think, he threw himself across the room to where Vriha struggled with the remaining Jem'Hadar. As Vriha went flying into the wall, Julian saw his chance. He dodged under the soldier's swinging knife and, with only a moment's calculation and all of his enhanced strength, neatly severed the Jem'Hadar's supply of ketracel, his carotid artery, and his spinal cord with one firm stroke.

Slightly winded, his hand dripping with white, he turned to help Vriha to her feet.

"Are you alright?" he asked. Vriha shook her head admiringly.

"My people have a saying," she said, her tone impressed. "Never turn your back on a Breen."

"Who knew they had it in them," Julian agreed wonderingly.

"Doctor, could you keep down the noise? I'm trying to work in here." Garak's voice sounded almost casual as it echoed from the crawlspace, and Julian fell in love all over again.

"Garak, how many circuits have you got left?" he called back, taking the weapon that Vriha handed him from the body of their fallen foe.

"Three."

"Well, work fast," Julian warned. "Pretty soon we're going to be up to our necks in Jem'Hadar."

Garak must have taken his words to heart, because Julian had just checked the battery pack on his weapon and straightened up to take stock of the room when it dissolved around him and he found himself, finally, aboard the runabout.


	12. Chapter 12

When Garak materialized on the runabout, he dived for the controls and performed the fastest life-sign scan he ever had. Worf and Martok were first priority; Worf had been nearly mortally wounded before he had left for his last fight. Garak was surprised to find him alive at all. Julian was far away from any signs of Jem'Hadar, anyway, standing near the sole Romulan lifesign. There were no Breen left in the camp.

Julian beamed aboard in full doctor mode while Garak moved to the piloting controls. He gave Worf a minute once-over almost as soon as he materialized.

"Take him to one of the cabins in the back," Julian told Martok. "I'll be with you as soon as I can."

In the reflection of the window, Garak watched Martok and Vriha lead Worf away into the aft cabin as Julian rushed toward him.

"Take us to maximum warp, Garak. We've got to get a message to the station," Bashir said, loudly enough for their comrades to hear. He came to rest leaning over the back of Garak's seat, one hand braced against the control panel and the other spread reassuringly across Garak's shoulder ridge. With a practiced, deferential nod, Garak finished putting up the shields and laying in their course.

"Are you alright, my dear?" he asked softly.

"I'm fine. Are you?"

"Oh, I think I'll live. But perhaps you didn't fully apprehend my meaning." He turned just enough to raise an eyebrow ridge and repeat, "Are you alright?"

Julian paused. "I think so," he said. Garak nodded cautiously and turned back to the console.

"Then you should attend to Commander Worf," he said, returning to a normal volume. "I don't think Deyos was prepared for an escape attempt. We are still not being pursued. Of course, I will alert you if that changes."

"Thank you, Garak."

Julian spent the next hour entirely focused on tending to Worf's wounds with the help of Vriha, who seemed eager to remain busy. Martok settled comfortably into the corner of the compartment and regaled them with intricate and undoubtedly embellished tales of Worf's triumph over Jem'Hadar after Jem'Hadar until Julian, finally satisfied that Worf would survive the rest of the trip home, left him in Vriha's care and went to check on Garak.

"Any sign of pursuit?" he asked as he entered the forward compartment.

"Long-range scanners showed two Jem'Hadar vessels departing the prison half an hour ago, but they were easy enough to evade."

"Good. I've managed to heal the worst of the damage Worf suffered. It's amazing he was still able to move when we beamed up."

"He's lucky to have such a talented doctor."

"He's lucky to know you, you mean. If I believe even half of what Martok's been describing, he wouldn't have lasted much longer in the ring."

"Best not to contemplate what might have been."

"I'm sure." Julian settled into the seat next to Garak's and set about preparing their message to the station. "About the Changeling. On the station," he said slowly. "Is there anything I should know?"

"They behaved very much as you do. Perhaps a bit more secretive and duplicitous."

"You must have gotten on well, then."

"Also a bit more reserved."

"A pity, I'm sure."

"Yes. Although, despite their coolness toward me, your counterpart has become quite close to Tora Ziyal." Strangely, Garak's voice was more guarded than before.

"Gul Dukat's daughter?"

"Possibly not for long, given how little he approves of her association with me."

"You think he'd kill her?"

"I think he'd disown her," Garak said darkly.

"Were you two..." Julian didn't want to finish the thought aloud.

"How little confidence you must have in yourself, my dear, to believe that you could be forgotten so quickly. No, she has simply become a very good friend to both of us."

"Won't she be surprised?" Julian said lightly, keying in the last of his message. "That's the last of it. It should transmit automatically as soon as we're in range of the station." He stood and laid a hand gently on Garak's shoulder. "I'm going to go and check on Worf and Vriha. Will you be alright here?"

"If not, you'll be the first to know."

Julian left, the familiar pattern of his gait echoing through the carpet and the thin floor of the runabout. A few short minutes later, Garak felt another set of soft footsteps padding into the runabout's front cabin. Garak waited for a greeting, but none was forthcoming. He turned, confused, to find Commander Vriha on the floor, slumped against the wall with her head on her knees.

Garak turned back to his controls. There were precious few places on the runabout for privacy. He would not intrude on the Commander's grief unless asked to.

"I couldn't stand to be in there anymore." Vriha's sharp voice was tempered by exhaustion and grief. "Those Klingons are always so loud. So boastful. Gleefully repeating and repeating the tales of Worf's fights. They get more elaborate with each telling."

Martok was still at it, then. Garak envied the blind, bloodthirsty optimism that drove the General's pride in their hard-won victory. He himself had little room for true joy in their escape. After the initial thrill of success, the memory of their losses crept back in, bringing with them doubt and fear for their immediate future. Commander Vriha was clearly feeling the same way.

"I keep thinking about Havraha and my subordinate Dhael. Ila. Siana. Even Tain. Who knows how many more will die in that camp, unmourned while Changelings live out their lives in borrowed skin?"

"I'm sure the Federation will make every attempt to recover the prisoners." Garak winced even as he said it. His mollifying words would have worked on Julian's naivety and Federation optimism, but it was almost condescending to say them to someone like Vriha.

"We signed their death warrants." Her voice was flat, blunt, and piercingly clear, no longer muffled by her knees.

"We had no choice."

"I know that, and neither will they. They'll have to hide what they've done. At least you did not have to leave me behind after all." She laughed bitterly. "Much easier to find one life sign than three, I expect."

"Indeed. I meant to ask, if it's not too painful a subject, what happened to the others?"

"They died at the hands of the Jem'Hadar. Your mate was almost next. He was very brave." Her voice became muffled again. "They were all very brave, and I let them die. Havraha and little Dhael, who needed my protection so very much. I failed her, Mister Garak. I didn't watch her closely enough and she let her temper get the best of her over Tain's rations. And now all those people."

The cabin fell silent. Garak was suddenly thankful for the indelicate hearing typical to Cardassian physiology. If Vriha needed privacy for her grief, he would not be able to hear her sobs. He directed his full attention to monitoring the long-range sensors, and for fifteen long minutes they sat, together and apart.

"Tell me, Mister Garak," Vriha said finally, with only the barest edge of roughness in her voice, "what do you think they will do with me on Deep Space Nine?"

"I imagine they will debrief you and contact the Romulan High Command to have you sent home."

Vriha hummed noncommittally. "And if I arranged for my own transportation off the station? Do you think I would have any difficulty?"

Garak considered this. "There are a number of discreet transport vessels that frequently dock at the station if, of course, discretion is what you seek. If I've misunderstood, I apologize and am sure the Romulan government will be very interested in welcoming you home as soon as possible."

"I can't go back."

The bluntness of her statement shocked Garak. He turned around to find her looking at him with fierce, green-rimmed eyes, a wall of determination cracked by a flicker of fear. Garak fought to keep his composure against the sudden onslaught of deja vu. Years before, in a small and nondescript room much like this, it had been his job to break down such walls when they stood between him and the truths possessed by prisoners. In the cold present, those truths were suddenly being offered up at the price of understanding and compassion instead of blood, and Garak found himself uncomfortable with his own willingness to pay.

"I failed my people. I failed those I had sworn to myself I would protect. What can I do if I go back? Nothing but rejoin the ranks of the Tal Shiar and watch more and more of us vanish without vanishing. That can't be the only camp the Dominion has out here, Mister Garak. If I return, all I can look forward to is failure, loss, and the certainty that at least some of those around me are not who they seem to be."

There was nothing Garak could do but nod in understanding.

"I have a daughter." The admission seemed harder for Vriha to make than anything she had yet said. "As long as I hold any power or strategic intelligence, she will be in danger of losing me again. She has already lost so much. Her mother died when she was very young, and now on top of that I've disappeared, whether she knows it or not. I must do what I can to protect her, as I couldn't protect Dhael."

Garak nodded dumbly. "I understand."

"When your child is born, you will see. Perhaps not all at once, but over time you will understand how keenly the love of a parent can cut."

Garak nodded again. What would he do in Vriha's place? What wouldn't he do? What if it were Ziyal being threatened with losing those she loved and trusted?

She already was being threatened, he thought to himself ruefully. Perhaps the question was really what was he going to do?

"I will help you as much as I can," Garak finally said. "I'm sure you wouldn't mind doing a small favor for me in return."

Ninety minutes later, the console next to Garak lit up to indicate that they were in range of the wormhole and their message was transmitting. Only a few short hours after that, the runabout docked securely on the station, where Captain Sisko, Constable Odo, and a pair of nurses with a gurney waited to welcome them back to life on Deep Space Nine.

"Blood screenings all around," Sisko announced jovially.

"I'm afraid that might not be entirely effective," Julian said. "The Changelings have found a way around the test. I have some ideas about implementing an alternate screening process."

"I'm glad to hear it. For the time being, however, each of you will make a brief report while Odo confirms your identities. After that, we will see about getting all of you back where you belong as soon as possible."

Their steps buoyed by relief, the little group tramped off to Odo's makeshift base in the infirmary behind Worf's gurney.


	13. Chapter 13

Julian flitted around the infirmary, fussing from bed to bed and waving off all of the nurses' attempts to examine him. Every time one got near, he redirected them to Worf or Vriha or Martok with more grace than Garak had thought him capable of. Garak toyed with the idea that he could be watching yet another Changeling in action, but it was more for his own entertainment than anything, an exercise in hypothetical espionage that distracted him from the discomfort of being surrounded by dismissive Bajoran nurses who would clearly rather see him dead than go within a meter of him.

To the nurses' credit, they knew what Julian was doing and were acting against him. Garak settled back against the wall with amusement and covertly watched the Bajorans casting meaningful glances back and forth, silently weaving a plot that was obvious to everyone but Julian himself. As their trap began to close, Garak cast his own net, deftly drawing Julian over to discharge him just before Nurse Jabara shoved a tray of blood samples into the doctor's hands and said earnestly that it would be very helpful if he sat down in a back office for a while and checked whether anyone had contracted any diseases from the camp, thank you, Doctor.

Garak was on his feet almost as soon as the office door closed behind Julian.

"If you'll excuse me," he said, sliding effortlessly into his unassuming, conciliatory tailor persona, "I really must attend to my shop. Garak's Clothiers, just down the promenade," he clarified with a nod toward his former co-captives, his eyes catching Vriha's for the barest moment. "Who knows what kind of order backlog has accumulated in my absence."

Of course, he didn't go straight to the shop. Vriha wouldn't have the time to stop by for at least a day, and as flippant as his parting comment had sounded even to him, he really did not want to confront his work backlog until he had gotten some sleep. Instead, he detoured to his quarters, taking just enough time to shower and change his clothes before returning to the promenade.

Business at Quark's was just beginning to pick up for the evening. Garak, exhausted and more than a little fed up with judgemental Bajorans, scanned the crowd with trepidation, determined to turn around if he found his quarry eating with Major Kira. When he instead found her alone, relief washed over him like a cool rain clearing away the dust storms.

"Ziyal?" he said. She turned, her eyes as full of hope as they had been when he left. He smiled with more confidence than he felt. "I told you I'd be back," he said, and suddenly she was upon him, kissing his cheek, her arms around his neck. Garak paused for the merest of moments before giving in and returning the hug. After everything, he thought, there would be no escaping sentiment here either.

"I never doubted it," she sobbed into his tunic.

He wanted to reassure her, to tell her that of course he had returned, to say that he would never lie to her. Instead, he guided her back to her seat, murmuring, "I appreciate your confidence in me."

"And Worf?" she sniffled, grasping his hand firmly across the table.

"He was badly injured, but he'll survive."

"Injured? How? What happened?"

As quietly as he could, Garak explained the broader details of what had happened at the Dominion camp. Ziyal listened raptly, her eyes growing wider and wider as he spoke.

"I'm amazed you survived," she gasped when he had finished his story.

"There were moments when I thought we wouldn't," he admitted. "There's one other thing."

"What?"

"In the camp, we found several people who had been held by the Dominion and replaced with Changelings. One of them was Julian."

"Julian?" Impossibly, her eyes widened even further. Garak squeezed her hand reassuringly.

"He's safe and well now," he said quickly, "but it seems he was replaced by a Changeling about four weeks ago, when he returned from the conference."

"Four whole weeks," Ziyal said wonderingly. "Then when he-" she flushed and looked down.

"When he left me, it was the Changeling," Garak confirmed, biting back the bile that surged in his throat at the mere thought of being so openly truthful about something so personal. If anyone deserved the truth, he reminded himself, it was Ziyal. As much truth as he could give her.

"Oh, thank goodness!" And Ziyal was flying at him again, hugging him close and chattering against his ear. "I knew he couldn't just break it off like that. He's so very much in love with you. I always thought you'd end up together, just as happy as you were before. You were meant to be together!"

He smiled despite himself at her naively optimistic babbling. She had always had a strangely rosy view of his and Julian's relationship. Garak suspected it had something to do with her unstable childhood, but he found it rather charming nevertheless.

"It's so wonderful that you've been reunited," she continued. "Now we can all be here together on the station, just like we were before." Ziyal, not a good deceiver at the best of times, didn't quite manage to hide the wince that stole across her face. Garak suspected he knew why.

"Ziyal, you look upset."

"It's nothing."

"I don't think it's nothing." Something he had said to Julian returned to Garak with dire clarity. "Did something happen with your father?"

Ziyal bit her lip. "He's disowned me."

"Because of me?"

She nodded sadly. Garak tried his hardest to be sincere as he said, "I'm sorry, my dear."

"I appreciate that." Ziyal slid both hands around her cup and huddled in on herself. "Oh, I've been such a fool, Garak. I never thought he was capable of doing something so cruel."

Garak and Major Kira had never openly discussed their tacit co-parenting of Tora Ziyal, but they knew each other enough to know where they stood on a number of issues. They frequently disagreed; Kira strongly favored the use of religion to enforce morality, for example, while Garak believed that duty to the concrete institution of family should be the stronger motivator. They had had many silent disagreements across the promenade, one of them standing apart as the other discussed some point or other with their impressionable charge.

One thing they had always agreed upon was that Ziyal should never have to know what her father was truly capable of. They had both seen enough of war and devastation to know that understanding Dukat and his crimes would destroy the sweet, optimistic young woman who had somehow found the strength to keep her pure faith in those around her despite all of the hardship she had seen.

So it was easier than breathing for Garak to smile reassuringly, take Ziyal's hand again, and say, "I'm sure he will change his mind someday. In the meantime, it's just as you said: We're all back on the station, and you will always have a home here with us."

Ziyal's smile was instant and bright as a star. "I'm glad. After all, I'll have to help Julian get used to being back, won't I?"

Garak returned her smile. "You will, indeed."


	14. Chapter 14

In a closed office behind the Deep Space Nine infirmary, Julian was reliving the numb shock he had first felt in Tain’s prison cell. Apart from a short break to change his clothes and stand numbly in the sonic shower in the infirmary's meager locker room, he had spent the last several hours poring over his baby’s DNA, analyzing and reanalyzing, searching for cruel sabotage or dangerous defects.

He felt a peculiar mix of relief and apprehension when he discovered no problems anywhere in the baby’s genome. On the one hand, the child would almost certainly have as easy a life as good health could give him. On the other hand, Julian was having a baby. Really having a baby. Not in a Dominion prison camp where no one would ever know and where they both would likely die, but in the real world where people judged and persecuted mixed-race children. Where a war was brewing. Where Julian would have to admit to Garak that he wasn't entirely natural because, while he could hide his genetic modification from a friend or a lover with relatively few pangs of guilt, he could certainly not do so for the father of his son.

Julian shook his head to clear his frenzied thoughts. He set aside the scant information the Federation possessed on Cardassian pregnancy and neonatal care for future reading and sighed heavily as he set about finalizing the report on his kidnapping. Anything to distract himself. He had lost track of time when Jadzia’s voice cut through his reverie.

“What are you still doing in here?” she demanded, her voice stern but full of concern.

“I’m finishing up some notes before I deliver my full report to Captain Sisko,” Julian said.

“You should be resting.”

“I’m fi--” Julian rose from his chair to prove his point, but did so too quickly for his nutrient-starved body. Julian mentally filed away the realization that skipping meals while pregnant was not going to be an option as he caught himself on the edge of the desk. He ignored the beginning of Jadzia’s scolding while he focused on breathing deeply to regain his equilibrium.

“--knows that you’ve been through a lot,” Jadzia was saying as Julian caught up with her, “and he won’t mind if you wait to fill him in on the details.”

“All right,” Julian relented. “I’ll talk to Captain Sisko tomorrow morning, if that will make you happy.” Looking up, he caught sight of Garak hovering placidly just outside the door.

“I hope I’m not disturbing anything?” Garak said as he stepped into the office.

"You're not. I was just telling Julian to go home and get some rest,” Jadzia explained, shooting a pointed look at the doctor. Garak looked him up and down, and Julian was suddenly very aware that he was still clutching the edge of his desk, broadcasting a weakness that could very well get him dismissed to his quarters before he had a chance to talk with Garak properly. He fought off the last shred of wooziness and forced himself to stand straight.

“I’m fine,” Julian reiterated. “Admittedly, I could use a good meal, but that’s why Garak is here.” Jadzia relaxed somewhat at the assurance that her friend had at least planned to eat. She turned to Garak.

“As long as you make sure he leaves the rest of his work for tomorrow and doesn’t collapse on the way,” she commanded.

“I will ensure he arrives safely,” Garak responded smoothly. Taking Julian’s arm delicately, he drew the doctor out of the office and toward the promenade.

By the time they arrived at the Replimat, Julian was certain that Garak was walking closer to him than normal. It was a comforting thought; after weeks of isolation and several lonely hours in the infirmary, close proximity to conferred a coziness that he hadn't realized he'd been missing. He began to feel almost normal.

They carried their food to the back corner, leaving a buffer of empty tables around them. As they settled down to eat, Garak seemed completely unaware of Julian’s intensely searching gaze. Instead, he directed his attention to the food in front of him, slid a small herb salad from his tray to Julian’s, and began to eat. This was, of course, the last straw.

“Aren't you going to say anything?” Julian demanded, his fork held idle over his plate. Garak deliberately chewed and swallowed his mouthful of food before responding. 

“Under the circumstances, my dear, I believe your usual tendency to scarf down your meal like a starving beast is the wisest course of action. We will talk when you've eaten.”

“But Garak!”

“This is unaccustomed territory for both of us, but any concerns you have can certainly wait for the duration of a meal.” He indicated the dish he had given the doctor, his tone turning pointed. “The herbs are an old Cardassian tradition. They're excellent for fetal development.”

Julian flushed with annoyance, but relented and set himself to scarfing. When he reached for the salad, he risked a joke.

“How do I know you’re not trying to poison me?” His heart soared as a devious grin tugged at the corners of Garak’s mouth.

“Whatever you may imagine of my botanical prowess, I doubt that I could draw poison from a replicator.”

“Then I suppose I have no choice but to trust you.”

“My darling, you have always been too trusting of me.”

Julian smiled and took a bite of his herbs. He was pleasantly surprised to find they had a rich, almost minty flavor. He chewed a few mouthfuls slowly, his initial hunger pangs already reduced to a low ebb. He watched the slow rhythm of Garak’s eating for a long, fond moment before speaking around another mouthful of herbs.

"It's yours."

Garak hummed thoughtfully, more like someone who had finally confirmed a long-suspected but unimportant piece of trivia than like someone who had been told he was going to be a father.

“I would understand, you know, if you didn’t want to go through with this,” Julian persisted. 

“Is abandoning one’s family a common practice among humans?” Garak asked mildly, making rather a show of attending to his meal.

“Tain said he should have killed your mother before you were born,” Julian reminded him.

“And he didn’t,” Garak rebutted. “It is not an easy thing for a Cardassian to be so contemptuous of the State as to deny it a citizen.”

“So our son is for the State, is he?” Julian smiled, surprised at the relief he felt at Garak’s tacit acceptance. Garak’s eye ridges raised pointedly.

“All Cardassian children belong to the State.”

“He’s only half Cardassian.”

“Which has its own uses,” Garak grinned. 

Julian took his last bite of herbs and settled back contentedly in his chair, savoring the ability to finally relax after his long captivity. Garak's soft voice interrupted his reverie.

"It's a boy, then?"

"Genetically speaking, yes."

Garak nodded thoughtfully as he took the last bite of his meal. They returned their trays and started toward the habitat ring. As they neared the first junction, Garak turned to lead Julian toward the doctor's quarters, but Julian balked..

"I don't want...I mean." Julian forced himself to breathe. He lowered his voice. "The Changeling. They stayed in my quarters, didn't they?"

Realization dawned in Garak's eyes. "They did," he confirmed shortly, sliding his arm through Julian's. "Come along."

As soon as they got to Garak's quarters Julian stumbled straight to the bed, his clothes falling haphazardly across the ground as he went. He dimly registered Garak slowly removing his tunic and then, still mostly dressed, settling pensively on the other side of the bed, angled to look back at Julian.

"Julian." Garak's voice was uncharacteristically serious. "I feel it is only fair to give you the same opportunity you gave me. You do not have to go through with this."

"I'm going to have the baby." Julian's words were muffled even to his own ears, stifled by the arm he had thrown over his face.

"I understand," Garak agreed, "but you shouldn't feel obliged to have it with me."

"Having second thoughts already?" Julian kept his tone light, but a thrill of fear gripped his heart.

Garak was silent for a long moment. "I'm more concerned for the boy than for myself. When all is said and done, do you think he'll want to have me as a father? An exile with no social standing? A former agent of the Order?" He laid his hand tentatively on Julian's hip. "As time goes on, will you really want a killer like me around your son?"

Julian pulled his arm from his face and tried to focus his sleep-blurred eyes on the ceiling. Garak meant it, he knew. If Julian told him to leave, he would leave. It would mean raising a child alone, but it would also mean that Julian would never have to confess his genetic enhancements or share his life with someone who knew the abomination he was. Still, despite his uncertainties, there was only one answer.

"Yes." He pulled his arm away from his face and took Garak's hand. "You're not your father, Elim. You know that, don't you?"

Garak held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded quietly, finished undressing, and slid into bed beside Julian. Almost shyly, he settled a hand around Julian's middle. Julian smiled sleepily and set his own hand atop Garak's as he drifted off to sleep, comforted by the familiar hum of the alien space station and the reassuring weight of the future inside him.


End file.
